Maybe I should ask Fensa—
That thought cuts off as it so often does.
Fensa is sequestered somewhere far away on an island, I remind myself. Because of the man shackled to my uncles’ bed. And if he knew where she and her family were, he’d most definitely hurt them, possibly imprison them, and maybe worse.
I try to push all thoughts of getting in contact with Fensa out of my mind. But twins aren’t known for their independent nature. And as hard as it was for me to make and keep friends growing up with my ballbuster personality, I’d become one co-dependent bitch by the time we turned eighteen.
Though Fensa never copped to it, I suspected she decided to go to grad school in Arizona because she knew that was the one place I wouldn’t follow her ass. Because A, it was hot as hell—a deal breaker for most wolves since as a species, we prefer colder climes. And B, I’d already accepted an early royal apprenticeship with my uncles, so I had to go to college close to North Dakota.
I’d do anything to protect her, but the unnatural feeling of not being able to see or even talk to my twin sister on the regular sits like a dull ache in my chest.
“Yet another reason we really need to convert your father from a vengeful sociopath into the dragon who faded on us,” I say to the baby, sleeping in the crib.
I reach down to pick him up. “And where are your uncles, by the way? Usually, they’re knocking on the door with bottles by now, claiming you’re starving!”
The one other difference between this and a regular birth…for some reason, my milk had never come in. Probably a good thing since Bazzi’s teeth were already coming in like sharp little razors and he had what I could only describe as a super aggressive appetite the few times he was awake.
And I don’t want to say my uncles have spoiled me since I got back, but they’re definitely taking this Poppa business seriously. Usually they’d be here by now with a King Poppa tote bag filled with bottles of warmed up formula.
No big deal.
I take my fussy 33-pound baby downstairs myself, more worried than annoyed by my uncles no show as I walk into the kitchen….
Where I find Kyle and Clyde at the island counter talking quietly over five bottles already made and lined up in front of them.
But their conversation stops when I enter the kitchen from the back of the house stairs. “Ola!” they both say, like I’ve shocked the shit out of them just by coming down the stairs.
“Hey, Poppas, what’s up,” I answer, taking one of the bottles they’ve made and sticking it into my baby’s demanding mouth. “Bazzi and I were honest to God worried something had happened to you this morning. You get a late start?”
Instead of answering my question, they exchange looks.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, the relief of finding them down here safe and sound beginning to fade.
“Ola, let’s talk in the receiving room,” Kyle says, picking up three of the four remaining bottles. His tone is a gentle suggestion. But I can tell it’s not really a suggestion, by the way Clyde grabs the last bottle and my elbow at the same time, before guiding me toward the living room. Technically he’s retired from beta duty, but he continues to add actions to all of Kyle’s “suggestions.” Like they’re still the ones in charge.
“Listen, I know this feels crazy to you, but trust me, I’m getting through to him,” I tell them as Clyde pulls me towards the kitchen’s open doorway. “I just need a little more…”
The “time” fades away when the smell hits my nose.
Or should I say smells? Lots and lots of smells.
It’s not just Kyle and Clyde who want to talk to me.
I realize that as soon as I see who is waiting for me in the receiving room on the other side of the foyer. My mom and two dads are sitting on a couch together.
And they all stand up when we come through the kitchen door.
Chapter Eight
All three of my parents come running toward the kitchen’s open doorway as soon as they see me. Mom, Papa Olafr, and the FJ, the Alpha King Fensa and I call Dad.
Mom’s usually neon-colored dreadlocks have been thrown into a haphazard bun with a bunch of grey new growth at the base. Months’ worth, I’d guess. She probably hasn’t re-dyed her hair since I disappeared. That and the fact that she’s wearing a plain sweatshirt with no anime or videogame characters on the front tells me just how worried she’s been.
Dad doesn’t look any better. He loves his suits. His idea of dressing down is wearing a leather jacket with a tie. But today both he and Papa Olafr are both dressed in gym clothes. Like they all dropped everything and came running as soon as they found out I was here.