Chapter 27
Morgan
Broke the bed, broke my heart. Just another fucking day in full moon paradise.
I’m angry. I’m so fucking angry. And the worst part about it is I understand why Sylvan is the way he is. Part of me even agrees with him. We’re a terrible match, aren’t we? I’m pretty sure we could argue over whether water is wet or not. That’s how childish it gets at times.
But when we’re not at each other’s throats, he’s the only person I’ve ever had in my life who sees me. All of me.
I tuck myself into the breakfast nook with a cup of coffee, the book on Shadow Seers, and my laptop.
I’ve been making notes when I can on everything written in the margins.
All the angry scrawled notes. Weirdly enough, it’s almost become a comfort read.
I think I’ve read it from front to back a few times now, but flip the pages to the beginning again.
On the bottom left-hand corner, there’s a name scrawled in ink. I stare at it for a few moments, then scowl.
Gideon Foxglove.
Who is that? The ink is faded so much that I tilt the book to catch the light, humming to myself.
I don’t know that name. Then again, I don’t know much about my family, given they’re all dead.
My mother’s name was Sera and my father’s was Aspen.
I can’t even remember my great-grandparents’ names, but Gideon doesn’t sound right.
I really don’t remember my grandfather well, which makes sense.
The story I’ve heard is that Maeve found her fated mate and rejected him.
It’s really no wonder she ended up being so fucking terrible. Maybe rejecting that sort of bond made her bitter and mean.
I take a sip of coffee and flip to the first page again.
Most Shadow Seers have a sad history. Not all, though.
As someone who has studied our history, I can think of at least three who have done amazing things with their magic.
I also don’t believe someone is born evil, even though that’s the way this book is written.
Even as a child, I remember hearing about the cursed witches.
I hate to say it, but part of me feels like I understand them.
I, too, was told I was a failure and cursed over and over while growing up.
I didn’t let that turn me into a bad person, but it still sticks with me.
Especially in moments like what just happened with Sylvan.
From a historical standpoint, I agree with the person writing in the margins. Gideon, possibly. Some of the notes toward the end become deranged, but the start is solid. Maybe Shadow Seers would be better if the world didn’t immediately cast them into the dark.
I take another sip and slump forward with a sigh, resting my head on the table. I can hear Sylvan moving around upstairs, and I know he’s probably worried about me. At least he’s giving me some space.
Fuck, the sex is always just so incredibly good. Waking up with him inside me fulfilled one of the fantasies I’ve had for years, and it was ten times better than I could have ever imagined. I want him to wake me up that way every morning.
I hear him thunder down the stairs and when he enters the kitchen, he goes still. I look up at him and watch as he picks up the cup of coffee I had waiting.
“Thank you,” he says softly.
“Don’t get too excited,” I mutter. “There could be poison in it. Or a laxative. How much do you think a werewolf shits with a laxative in their system?”
He wrinkles his nose. “I guess we’ll find out, depending on whether you’re merciful or not.” I’m tempted to do it just because he thinks I won’t. I scrutinize him as he pulls out an iron skillet and supplies for breakfast. “Sweet or savory?” he asks.
“Sweet,” I mutter.
My feelings are hurt and I’m completely miserable, but I still won’t say no to a breakfast cooked by Sylvan. He makes really good pancakes.
I have no business looking at him while he’s not paying attention, but my eyes keep wandering over. I like it when he cooks for me. I like it when he takes care of me. I don’t like it when he denies us both something that could work.
I’ve dated other people in the past, but it’s different this time.
Not that I can even call what Sylvan and I have done dating.
But there’s a bond here. I know it, I feel it.
I’ve started to wonder if the threads I saw from the binding spell weren’t from the spell at all, but a sign that he’s mine.
For so long, I thought fated mates were overrated but then I met him—and he’s everything.
Sylvan flips golden-brown pancakes while he cooks up eggs and sausage. I wrinkle my nose, glaring as he gathers oranges and squeezes them for juice.
He’s so incredibly annoying. Truly.
Sylvan puts a glass down in front of me and then returns to the stove. Idly, I think about how good he’d look in just an apron. Could I convince him to wear a pink frilly apron for me? Possibly.
I’m stuck in my thoughts for the next twenty minutes, and by the time Sylvan puts everything out on the table, I’ve cycled through frustration, sadness, yearning, and anger at least five times.
He doesn’t say anything as he offers me a plate full of delicious food, and I don’t say anything as I take it.
Finally, he breaks the silence. “Do you think Maeve was ever in love?”
Great. Talking about my wicked grandmother’s love life is how we’re going to break our silence? Sure. I scowl as I cut into my pancakes. “That’s so random.”
“I know. But it’s something I’ve wondered about here and there. She was never married, right?”
“Correct,” I say. “Well, I don’t know. Supposedly she rejected her fated mate.”
Sylvan sucks in a sharp breath, and I feel the ache too. Even talking about it makes me uncomfortable. Possibly because that’s what’s going to need to happen between Sylvan and I if we can’t . . .
“Morgan,” he mumbles. “Stop it. I won’t do that.”
“But you don’t want this,” I say.
“I do want this. But I can’t do it. But why would Maeve have rejected her mate? Was he your mother’s father?”
I frown as I think back to my childhood. When I try to imagine my grandfather, there’s nothing there. Not even a face. I don’t remember anything about him, his existence, or why Maeve would have rejected him in the first place. My parents never spoke about him.
“I don’t remember anything,” I finally say. My ears start to ring the harder I try thinking about him. “Truly, it’s like he never existed. Like there’s a blank spot in my mind. I don’t know if he died or what.”
Sylvan hums to himself and sips his coffee. “That’s so odd.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Do you really think Maeve, of all people, would have been someone to fall in love?”
“I guess not.” He snorts, giving me a side glance. “I swear the Foxgloves are such a mystery.”
“I think the Hex just broke all of us,” I sigh. “Or something. I don’t know. The supposed curse probably killed him. Or maybe Maeve murdered him. I’m starting to understand the draw.”
Sylvan chuckles. “I promise to keep making you breakfast every day. At least, until you kill me off, witch.”
I narrow my eyes. “Maybe sooner than later, wolf.”