“I love you,” Bailey whispers, palms sliding up and down my back.
“Love you,” I choke out.
“She’s your sister, and maybe–”
“You’re my soulmate. You’re number one.”
“Thank you, Jase. That means everything to me. But if–”
“No,” I deny. “An alpha knows menace when he sees it and I didn’t just see it, I felt it the instant I set foot in that house. She would’ve ripped you apart. Taken all her frustrations out on you. Like she’s done her whole fucking miserable and bitchy life.”
Feeling that fear, that sheer terror through my connection to Bailey in the middle of my chest just before I got to my parents’ door is something I’ll never forget. I’ll bust my ass to never feel that again.
Why my sister decided Bailey was her arch nemesis from a young age is beyond me. There’s no good reason for it. Bailey’s always been sweet, good to the core, well-loved by everyone in the pack. Sherry has had a hate on for her since they were in kindergarten and it got worse and worse over the years. Watching Bailey get what Bailey wanted while she was stuck in post-Wyatt Meadows misery made it worse, I guess.
It doesn’t matter why; it’s just done. She’s dead to me.
I look my mate over. Her cheek isn’t bleeding, but those marks are still there and the skin looks raw and sore. “You need to shift again and heal your face.”
She nods, but mid-nod, she shifts. Her little wolf took my suggestion as a command.
She sits like a little bookend, panting, tail thumping on my lap, giving me her eyes.
I press my mouth to the top of her head. She’s part of Bailey, still a bit separate, but she gets kudos for her bravery.
“Good girl,” I say and put my forehead against hers. “Thank you for trying to keep yourself safe. Now, shift back.”
Bailey rises to her feet, lifting her dress and her underwear from the couch. Her face is healed, but there’s trouble in her eyes as she looks me over.
Bailey’s phone rings. “That’s Mom’s ringtone,” she says, eyes pinging to her bag by the front door.
I gesture for her to go ahead.
***
I’m upstairs, working on Bailey’s bookshelves, throwing myself into it. She’s downstairs and her mother just left. I was relieved when I saw the car pull away after just a couple minutes becauseI’m in no mood for company and the visit was short enough it probably wasn’t taken as bad manners that I didn’t go down there and say hello.
“Hey?” she calls.
I look over my shoulder and my mate is standing behind me with a plate of sandwiches. My eyes coast over her face, looking for signs of the gouges Sherry’s claws left. The fact that it took two shifts to clear it shows how deep those claw marks penetrated, which is fucking infuriating. I’m not sure how long I’ll see the ghosts of those marks. If Bailey didn’t have the ability to shift, those would’ve permanently scarred her. If I’d been later than I was, Bailey might not even fucking be here. I push the anger back, set my measuring tape down, and move toward her.
“What’s this?”
“Skye’s Goober on Mom’s bread,” she answers.
My eyebrows go up.
“It’s a peanut butter and strawberry jelly swirl in a jar. It was in the Skye Quinn basket. She makes it with berries from her own garden. It’s on fresh white bread, which Mom dropped off along with some fruit and other fresh treats for us as well as a couple things like a dress I asked her to get cleaned for tonight.” She shrugs. “Perfectly edible, I’m sure.”
“Who put the Goober on the bread? Your mom?”
“Me,” she says sheepishly.
“And you’re assuring me it’s edible?” I ask.
“It might be more than edible. It might even be delicious,” she quips with a big smile.
“We’ll see about that, I guess,” I quip direly.