The Danger of Destiny (47 page)

He wouldn't let me help.

It must be a guy thing.

But now the floors gleamed. Old wood, with old memories, brought back to life.

I'd spent most of my free hours doing the rest. Repainting the trim—
victory!
Making a stab at recovering the easy chair—
not quite a victory!
Then, scrubbing everything that didn't smell like us with a solution made from two cups of hot water, ten drops of thyme essential oil, and a quarter of a cup of borax.

The only lingering trace of Mannus and the eighties was the wallpaper. It had to go. I couldn't wake one more morning to those blue forget-me-nots.

Because, you see, it had been ten days.

Ten
freakin'
days.

I wet my thumb and rubbed it over the film of backing until friction rolled it into tiny cylinders. They fell—
rat-a-tat
—on the plastic sheet I'd placed to protect my oak floors. I started working my nail at the wall covering's seam again.

The bedsprings creaked. I heard a boot drop. “You almost finished?”

“As soon as I'm done with this panel.”

“Thought so,” he murmured, getting up to disappear into the bathroom. Over the scratch of my
pick-pick-pick,
I heard the sounds of drawers of being yanked open and slammed shut. Then, my nose crinkled. I smelled ammonia.

He was cleaning the mirror? Well, that was a first.

The tap squeaked; water ran.

Trowbridge came out of the washroom carrying a Windex bottle filled with clear liquid. He sank into a crouch, his heavy thigh brushing my shoulder.

He scored the top of the wallpaper with his wolf-hard nails.

“First you have to scuff it up so the water will penetrate. I'll get Jack from the hardware store to bring you a scourer so you don't mess up your manicure any worse than you've already done.”

My knuckles wore a line of scrapes.

Balancing on the backs of his heels, he aimed the nozzle at the wall. “After that, you need to wet the paper.” He began squirting hot water on the strip next to mine.
Squish-squish. Squish-squish
. “You know, we could easily get Jack and his crew to do this.”

“I told you. This is our private place. Our room. Our bed. Our walls.”

Squish.

“Yep. Thought you'd say that too.” He squeezed the handle a few more times, spritzing the paper until all the blue flowers were slick. “Now, this is the important part,” he told me, setting the bottle down. “You've got to let the water do its work.” He let his elbows rest on his thighs, hands dangling between his knees. “All you have to do is let it sit.”

Staring at the wall, he began a tuneless whistle.

“How long?” I asked.

“About twenty minutes.” He gave me a wicked smile. “Maybe less.”

I heard a lawn mower start up. Then another.

“You're talking about a quickie.”

“Mmm-hmm.” His voice was warm butter.

That had possibilities. I let my gaze roam over my mate again.

Thanks to his super-fast-healing Were genes, his buzz cut was fast on its way to becoming a very bad memory. Small black curls swirled at the nape of his neck. And a lot of the gauntness that had produced such spectacular hollows under his cheekbones was gone. My man was rapidly filling out.

It made me happy.

And not just in the “my world's finally going right” kind of way. Nope, the feelings flooding me at that moment were far baser. Trowbridge's shoulders have always rated as a strong attraction, but now they are freaking awesome. My gaze dwelled on them for a second, then moved on to where his jeans hugged the curve of his butt cheek.

My gut tightened. “What's that in your back pocket?”

“A box.”

I could see that now. Also this—that it was a very small and very square.

Growing solemn, Trowbridge shifted his balance to extract a ring box. It was royal blue, and someone had wrapped a clumsy bow around it.

Little butterflies—I was positively
aflutter
with little butterflies.

Trowbridge stared at the box for a brief moment, and I got the sense that he was having a bout of minor misgivings.

Come on. You can do it.

He slid off the ribbon. It drifted—thin white crushed silk—to our floor. “I was thinking about your mom's Bride Belt a week ago,” he started.

For half my life, I'd worn my mother's Bride Belt around my hips, hidden underneath my clothing. Its chain is made of soft supple Fae gold and the clasp that secures both the belt and the soft leather pouch is jeweled. I always took comfort from its familiar weight. Rattling inside the pouch were five diamonds, each about the size of a desiccated pea.

To me, the stones weren't diamonds; they were relics of spilled tears—specifically, my mother's and my own. Perfect stones born from the tears we wept at the lowest and highest points of our lives.

A birth. A great loss. An instant of great joy.

As sentimental tokens, they were irreplaceable. However, nostalgia is a lousy substitute for having food in your belly and a roof over your head. Ten days ago, I gave the belt to Cordelia and told her to hawk the rocks.

Now Trowbridge set his thumb to the lid. “And that made me think about your tears.”

Please don't offer me a diamond ring. Make it anything else. A sapphire, a ruby, an emerald. Don't give me a diamond.

Nothing could replace my tears.

He flicked the lid open. Then he turned his ravaged hand toward me, the jewelry box balanced on his palm like it was an offering, instead of a good thing on the cusp of going very, very wrong.

My gaze dropped on the ring sitting on the satin cushion.

It was a custom piece. Any dimwit could tell that with just one glance. Made of dark gold, eighteen carats or higher. Not dainty so much as airy. Someone who'd never met Merry might have thought it was a miniature bird's nest. Until they looked at it carefully, and then they'd see that the twigs weren't twigs at all but very delicate vines.

It was exquisite.

“I'm going to miss her too,” he said.

Oh, Trowbridge.

“I know the ring hasn't got a diamond in it yet.” With some fascination, I watched color spread over his high cheeks. “I looked at the stones the guy had, but they were all shit. None of them was as bright as one of your tears.” His neck moved as he swallowed. “If you want one of those diamonds,” he said levelly, “we can go look at them together—I'll get you whatever you want. It will fit right in the center and if it doesn't I'll get the guy to make it over again so it will.” His gaze dropped to my mouth, then traveled slowly back to my eyes. “But I thought…”

“What?” I whispered.

“That we should wait until you get your Bride Belt back.”

My voice was a thread. “Trowbridge, I don't have my Bride Belt anymore.”

“But you will.”

I stared at him.

He nodded slowly. “You will, sweetheart. Promise.”

Be careful of those, My One True Thing.

A spark flitted in the depths of his eyes. “You need to believe that people are going to be there for you from now on.”

I already have,
I thought.
I believed in a man who pushed me off a waterfall. I believed in my wolf, and my magic, and the people of our pack.

And I believed in myself.

But if—when—my belt was returned and the stones were mine: that was the issue. The concept was sweet, but wearing one of my tears, letting total strangers gape at evidence of my greatest joys and sorrows …

I inwardly winced.

He took the ring, pulling it free of the bed of satin. Held it, pinched, so that the twists of gold rose above his scarred knuckles. “I know this isn't Fae gold. And this isn't Merry. And I know that if you wear one of your tears in your ring, we might attract attention from some dickhead who should know better than to mess with us.”

Blue comets started to swirl. “But Tink, if that's the case, let them come. We'll take care of them. This is our place and our rules.”

His maimed hand moved to my jaw and then upward to my temple. He pushed aside the hair I'd arranged, and tucked it behind my ear. “I don't want you to hide these around the pack anymore.” His thumb swept my ear's pointed tip in a gentle caress. “And I say if you got Fae Tears, you should wear them. They're the most beautiful diamonds I've ever seen.” His gaze lifted, to wander the room. “This home we're creating—it's just the beginning. We're going to make a pack that's never been seen before. But it all starts with us. Right here. We're the glue.” He pulled his brows together, searching for the right words. “We need to make another stand. This time without any mages, or arrows—”

“Or crossbow bolts and bullets.”

“Those too,” he said. “Life can be short, sweetheart. However long ours last, I want the world to know what you mean to me.”

I snared my upper lip to keep it from trembling.

“You are my chosen mate. Stand in front of our wolves with me at the next moon? I want to say the words again. This time with witnesses.”

I released the strip of paper I'd twined around my thumb and watched it flutter to our newly stripped bedroom floor. Tiny blue flowers on a background of cream. Old oak burnished to shine. He'd been married before, to a girl who wore a fussy dress. “I'm not wearing white.”

“Tink, you could wear nothing but your Bride Belt and I'd be proud.”

I held out my left hand.

He slid the ring over my knuckle. It was heavy. And beautiful. One day—soon—I'd put a tear in it. My eyes burned. “Robbie Trowbridge,” I said, not lifting my gaze from my beautiful ring.

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“I
really
need a shower.”

*   *   *

The Trowbridge drive is a long one and the front lawn large enough that it took two Ontario pack members over two hours to cut the grass. In my opinion, mowing the grass was a wasted effort. After all, it was very late in the growing season and it was Sunday.

Trowbridge had disagreed.

Sometimes, a wise mate knows when to throw her man a bone. Thus, the grass got cut in time for our first “Sunday at the Trowbridges'.” Hah. As I'd thought, it was a
totally
wasted effort. Who could see the lawn? Those who couldn't find a place for their vehicle along the drive had parked their cars on the grass. The rest of the front yard was devoted to long tables with fluttering plastic tablecloths, people, and grills.

It took a knowing eye to spot it, but the two wolf packs had carved out their own territories. The Creemore Weres had claimed the gas barbecues. They were proving how very manly they were by cooking chicken, ribs, and pre-made Angus burgers.

The Raha'ell territory was definitely to the right of gas grills where a rented rotisserie had been set up to slowly roast the pig. The Merenwyn-born wolves were in high spirits and had been since their nose hairs had first quivered with the scent of pork. To them, this Sunday lunch was the perfect combination of two new favorite things—food you didn't have to bring down yourself and useful human technology (i.e., battery-operated spits).

Yes, I was working the pack. Which reminded me; I bestowed a nice smile Rachel's way. If she was going to be my actual sister-in-law instead of my metaphorical SIL, I could make the effort.

She flinched and looked away.

You'd think she'd get over it.

All right.

My new life in Creemore wasn't going to be Camelot.

I have a bitch of a future sister-in-law who'd added to her list of grudges a broken nose and a fractured jaw. And the two wolf packs hadn't merged yet. But that will happen; I know it will. Eventually emotions or hormones will come into play and the tipping point between the Raha'ells and Ontarians will occur. There'll be a lot of drama and perhaps some blood.

But we've faced worse, Trowbridge and I. We'll work it out.

That's what we do.

Anyhow, I wasn't going to worry about it today, because it was Sunday and hellooo, I'd just got engaged, and plus, I had things occupying my attention. Like, for instance, keeping myself away from the grill area entirely, as I didn't want charred meat scents to taint the hand-knit sweater that Mickie Kellerman had left in a gift-box on our porch.

Back in the summer, I didn't know Mickie's name. As far as my memory served, she was the Creemore bitch who spent a lot of time at Sandra's Knitting. I have since memorized the face and name of each member of both packs. I know their mates and families. I know their ages, their occupations, and whether they're into baking.

This was one of my new occupations. Besides being Trowbridge's sounding board, I deal with the people-side of the pack.

I know, who knew?

But you know what? As Trowbridge had pointed out, eventually you have to stop thinking that Karma is out to get you and choose to believe that she's pushing you in a better direction. Life can get not only better, but it can also get good.

I am already a complete believer of that philosophy because the benefits of the Stronghold–Trowbridge union are multiplying faster than bunnies on fertility drugs.

Example?

When I'd dropped by to thank Mickie for the present, she'd taken an obvious shine to me. She and Bert were childless and had developed a special interest in the Merenwyn mutts, particularly Mouse and Gwennie. For some reason, Mouse had convinced the Kellermans that I walk on water. The end result is that I'm now happily anticipating mittens and a matching toque for winter.

Yes, life is good, though I'll always miss Merry. No one had remarked upon the ring on my hand, but the sweater's sleeves were long enough to hide it and I wanted to enjoy the secret for a day. Now I rolled the ring with my thumb, turning it until the nest of gold was warm on my palm. I made a fist, wistfully wishing Merry could see how my life had turned out.