Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
CHARLI
Three mates. For a girl who’s never had a boyfriend, three mates is a bit overwhelming.
Okay, a lot overwhelming. Although one wants nothing to do with me, which he made very clear when I visited him in the hospital yesterday.
The second I walked in, he wanted to know exactly what I did, how much blood I gave him, and where I got the information.
Then he informed me that vampires have the option of rejecting their mates.
Not wanting him to know his words stung, I shrugged, then thanked him for saving my life.
Hopefully, he can’t hear me like Teague.
Andros?
I wait, but there’s no answer.
I don’t think it works the same with vampire mates.
Macklin’s voice in my head is full of warmth and reassurance, the same way it is in person. There’s a faint sense of worry behind it, though, that has me reaching for his hand.
“You were right to wait. This has been a huge change for me. Moving here. New job. New home. Having supernatural mates. I’m trying to cope, but as Teague can tell you, I backslide.”
His face is blank, but I can tell by the little crinkle in his forehead that he’s thinking pretty hard. He pulls the truck into the underground garage and parks.
Before he can get out, I slide over and straddle his lap. My hands cup his granite jaw. “I’m happy about you and me. And if you don’t believe me, check. Teague says I’m practically an open book.”
There’s a faint vibration between us, and a minute later, his lips curl in that slow smile that makes me melt from the inside out. His body hardens beneath me, and my cheeks flare with heat. “Sorry. I?—”
His large forearms wrap around my back, and he pulls me tight to his body, then his mouth descends on mine.
Like earlier, his kiss is an exploration, unhurried and thorough, as if kissing me is his sole focus.
His fingers play with my hair and lightly massage my neck, but not once does he touch me anywhere else.
Or thrust up between my legs. If it weren’t for our connection, I’d wonder if he was really into me, but I can feel the current of need between us.
I can also feel the control he’s exerting to keep his body on simmer instead of letting it take over. Macklin likes to set the pace.
I try to follow his lead, but I can’t. My body skyrockets past simmering. Maybe it’s because it now knows what an orgasm feels like. Pressing against him, I gasp at the feel of him between my legs.
He abruptly pulls away and picks up his phone. “On our way.”
I laugh. I didn’t hear it buzz. Sweeping a shaky hand through my hair, I move to get off him, but he stops me.
“Seeing you in my lap, head thrown back, riding my cock… My control is the only thing keeping me from bonding to you right here, right now,” he says in a gravelly voice.
He opens the door and steps out, setting my feet on the ground, then hands me the box of desserts, ignoring the fact that I’m staring at him, mouth open in shock.
“You—”
He reaches back in and picks up my purse and phone. Sliding his hand into mine, he shuts the door and tugs me toward the elevator.
My lips twitch at the sight of this big man carrying my little purse.
When we walk in a few minutes later, Teague’s on the phone. “We’ll be there in an hour.” He hangs up and turns to us, his infamous broad grin stretched wide across his handsome face. “About damn time.”
I blush, and Macklin glares at him, but I feel the contentment and happiness they both feel.
“Who was on the phone?” Macklin asks, setting my stuff down on the kitchen island.
“MacKenzie. She says Andros is recovering better than she anticipated and can go home today,” Teague replies, exchanging a glance with Macklin. “We need to figure out where he’s going to go and who’s going to stay with him.”
“Where’s he been staying?” I ask.
“Hotel,” Teague replies.
Macklin looks at me. “I think we should test his reaction to your blood. If Ronan is right and he can’t hurt you, would you be opposed to him returning home?”
I bite my lip, thinking about the last two times I saw him and the fact that, whether we like it or not, he is my mate. At least until we figure a way out. “He can return here.”
Macklin and Teague share a glance, and he nods. “We’ll make sure it’s safe.”
I twist my fingers and study the two men standing in front of me. “Before we leave, we need to talk. Wait here.”
Ignoring the concerned expressions on their faces, I head to the bedroom and grab the envelope. After a deep breath, I tear it open and peer inside, seeing an official report as well as several articles. Returning to the living room, I hand the envelope to Teague.
“While we were out, I told Macklin my real name is Audrey. Before we move forward with us, I want you to know who I am and what happened to me. Andros isn’t the only one who has triggers.” My voice trails off.
Teague studies me for a second. “Audrey is a beautiful name.”
“My mother was pregnant with me when she watched The Little Shop of Horrors,” I say wryly. “She had a quirky sense of humor.”
Teague laughs. “Do you want us to call you Audrey?”
“No. She belongs in the past,” I tell him, and he nods. “Go ahead.”
Teague and Macklin take a seat on the couch. Opening the envelope, Teague pulls everything out and sets it on the coffee table.
He picks up the report and begins to read out loud.
“Audrey Wittington. Born February 25, 2003. Age twenty-three. Grew up in a town outside Nashville, Tennessee, called Columbia. Population a little over forty-eight thousand.” He looks at me.
“I think I’ll wait a few decades before I tell you how old we are. ”
Macklin chuckles. “Maybe a few centuries.”
Returning to the report, Teague continues. “Mother, Anna Wittington Coalfield. Father, never listed on the birth certificate. Married Hank Coalfield in 2010.”
I close my eyes when I hear him say Hank’s name out loud.
“Susan included a few newspaper clippings,” Macklin says, picking one up and skimming through it.
He sucks in a breath and, in a hoarse voice, reads the headline, then summarizes it.
“‘Teenager Burned In Alleged Attack.’ Audrey Wittington, thirteen, was burned when her stepfather, Hank Coalfield, dumped a fire pit on her. Your mother was arrested the same day. Apparently, she shot him when he advanced on you, yelling ‘burn, witch, burn.’” He clears his throat.
“Good for her.” I smile, and he continues.
“There’s a substantial paragraph dedicated to his innocence.
The bastard. Along with a quote from Hank about how Audrey tripped and pulled the fire pit down on top of her. ”
Abruptly standing, Macklin growls and strides over to the patio door, shoulders vibrating with anger. Fury filters through the connection, and I press a hand against my chest, feeling the full force of it even though I know it’s not directed at me.
“Damn it, Macklin. Cut it off,” Teague spits out.
He swivels around, his brows furrowed and sees the expression on my face. A blank wall descends between us, shutting off the barrage of feeling.
Teague and I both take a deep breath. I narrow my eyes at him. “Could you feel him? Through me.”
“Sort of,” he replies, cupping the back of his neck. “What you feel, I feel.”
That will be interesting.
Teague turns toward me. “This is why you’re always pulling up your collar, covering yourself from neck to waist.” His chest rises and falls as he stares at me, but not once do I get more than the tiniest glimpse of his rage, only the reassurance that my scars don’t matter to them.
I smile. “I hear you, but it’s going to take time.”
Macklin turns. “This is why the word witch triggers you, isn’t it?”
I nod. “Yes. Every time I hear someone call me a witch, Hank’s voice echoes in my ears.”
Teague picks up another article and reads the title. “Car Accident Claims Anna Wittington.” They both turn to me. “I’m guessing it wasn’t an accident?”
“I could never prove it, but she died three weeks before the trial,” I murmur, staring down at my hands.
Teague stands and pulls me into his arms. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” He draws back. “You rarely speak about her, but I’d love to know more.”
I grip the sides of his shirt and bury my nose in his neck for a brief minute. “Thank you.”
Another big body joins the two of us, murmuring sorry and hugging both of us, and I smile. After a minute, they return to the sofa.
They skim through the rest. Several more articles about the trial. Hank’s conviction. They both protest loudly when they read that the jury dismissed attempted murder but convicted him of child abuse. Then a final article which makes me tense.
Teague skims it, then, with a clipped voice, summarizes it for Macklin.
“Dated two years ago, when Audrey was in college at the University of Tennessee. ‘College Student Slain in Brutal Attack.’ Cara Nelson, Charli’s roommate, was stabbed to death.
The article says random attack, but thirty-seven times isn’t random.
It’s personal. They suspected Cara’s boyfriend and Charli, but they both had solid alibis.
” He takes a deep breath. “Susan attached a note to the article saying Hank was released two days before Cara died, and Audrey disappeared after graduation.”
“How the hell did he get out so quickly? He served…what…five out of the ten years!” Macklin roars, his fists clenched against his thighs.
“Most prisoners are eligible for parole starting at thirty percent time served,” I answer dully, having researched it. “Hank got his chance when he served fifty percent. My guess is his family money made sure they approved his release.”
“Pathetic. The system is corrupt,” Teague interjects with a disgusted expression. “That’s when you went on the run, isn’t it? Have you been living out of your car for the past two years?”