Chapter 8 - Moira

Moira's blood pulsed in time with the music. She held her drink in one hand, the red wine sloshing up the sides of the glass as she twisted, eyes closed. Even Vera was dancing, three vodka tonics later. Adria and Spencer, arms locked around each other, moved as if they were the only ones in the room.

All of the Rosewoods were packed into the bar that night. After the week they'd had, with the vandalism and the upheaval at the Silversand pack, they needed to blow off steam. Moira let loose and tried to forget about her troubles, about the bakery and the too-small number in her bank account.

It was easier said than done. Even after the wine and the dancing, thoughts kept bubbling up, breaking into her head even as she danced. It wasn't just the bakery she thought of. It was Jonah.

Everything he'd said about the soothsayer's prophecy battered around in her mind, clanging like trash can lids the moment she thought of something else. How dare he say that to her? Fate had never been so cruel as when it had tied them together.

"Why are you frowning?" Vera shouted to be heard over the music, dancing up next to Moira.

"Why are you smiling?" Moira shouted back. "Is it because you're drunk?"

"Like you're not," Vera said, grabbing Moira's hand and spinning her around.

Moira laughed and let herself be spun, letting the wine's heady feeling wash away her worries. "I think I need another glass."

"Get me another!" Vera called to Moira's back.

She pushed her way through the bodies and over to the bar, ordering another round for herself and her friends. Her dress clung to her sweat-damp skin. A man leaned over, good-looking, if too young for her.

"Let me buy you a drink," he said, eyeing her up and down, his gaze lingering on her cleavage.

Moira looked him over, considering. It had been a while since her last date, and there was something about the man's forwardness, the way he looked at her so hungrily, that intrigued her.

"Alright," she agreed, flashing her smile.

He paid for her drink and her friends', then helped her carry them out onto the dance floor.

"Here you go," she said, nudging Vera to get her attention.

"Who's that?" Vera asked bluntly. She took a big drink from her vodka tonic and narrowed her eyes at the man beside Moira. "I don't recognize you."

"Evans," the man said, holding out his hand.

Vera looked at it but didn't take it. "That's my sister, Evans . I'll be watching you."

Evans drew his hand back and glanced at Moira, thankfully looking more amused than offended.

"Ignore her," Moira said, shooting daggers at her sister. "I always do."

She pulled him closer, leaned in as the next song started, and let him loop his arm around her back. It dipped lower with every song they danced. She liked that he didn't try to talk or pepper her with questions about herself that she'd feel obligated to respond to. He seemed content to feel her in his arms. Moira turned and pressed her back up against him, feeling his hips against hers.

"Come to the bathroom with me." Suddenly, Vera was there at her shoulder, grabbing Moira's arm.

The heat she'd felt rising in her was doused out, her sister's presence a bucket of ice water over her head.

"You're a big kid; you can go alone," Moira protested, but she knew it was useless. Her sister never went alone when she was drunk.

"Come on before I pee in my pants," Vera said, too loud. She was completely drunk and completely unfazed at having said that out loud in front of other people.

"Seriously?" Moira hissed. She caught Vera's hand and yanked her toward the bathroom, mouthing an apology to Evans over her shoulder.

He smiled, easygoing, and melted back into the crowd.

"Couldn't bring Adria?" She growled, letting go of Vera's arm when they reached the line for the bathroom. "Or anyone else not trying to score for the first time in way too long?"

"Gross." Vera stuck out her tongue in a pretend gag. "Don't want to think about that. Plus, he's a stranger. I don't trust him."

"First of all," Moira said, moving up as the line did, "you don't trust anybody. Second of all, there are a lot of strangers here. It's a big town."

Vera yawned, completely unconcerned about ruining Moira's night. "I just think it's risky tonight, when we've just had someone attack the tree. Could've been him, for all you know."

"You're impossible." Moira groaned. "Go pee."

They got their spot in the bathroom, and Moira waited for Vera, who took the opportunity to fix her hair in the mirror. She dabbed some powder over her cheeks and forehead, shiny from dancing, and reapplied her lipstick while women spilled in and out, laughing and clutching each other.

"Will you hurry up?" Moira leaned against the sink to let a woman pass, glaring at Vera's feet under the gap in the stall.

Finally, Vera opened the door and stumbled out, yawning. She scrubbed her hands vigorously in the sink. Even drunk, her years of working as a veterinarian had ingrained perfect hygiene into her.

"Did you fall asleep in there?" Moira asked, though she knew the answer. It was way past her sister's usual early bedtime. And hers, too. They should both be home tucked in bed, not dancing with strangers at nearly midnight, crafting hangovers they'd be cursing in a few hours.

"Maybe," Vera said, sulky. "Just for a second."

"I think it's time to get you home," Moira said.

"Hey, I'm the big sister here, and I'm not done dancing." Vera slipped free of Moira's grasp and threw herself onto the dance floor. At least she hadn't gotten another drink first.

She searched the crowd for Evans, but she couldn't blame him if he decided to take off. No one wants to date someone with a clingy, overbearing sister. There were so many people dancing, wedged into the space, that it was difficult to discern where one body ended and the next one started.

Her eyes snagged on a man. Not Evans. Jonah. He shouldn't have looked as good as he did in his plain black t-shirt and dark jeans, his curly hair wild around his face. But once found, she couldn't take her gaze off of him. It must have been the wine coursing through her, making her blood run hot and thick through her veins, and the heat of the room driving the flush to her cheeks.

The clothes she'd picked out were suddenly too tight, too revealing. Every eye in the room was on her; she could feel it. But not his. He was searching the room for someone. Was it her? A vision of him finding some way to humiliate her there in front of her friends, on a night when she'd felt beautiful and desirable, swam to the front of her mind.

"I have to go," she mumbled, then realized Vera was no longer beside her.

There was no time to find her. If she dallied to pull Vera from the dancing, she'd be spotted by Jonah, and her vision would come true. She'd never be able to live it down, and there was nowhere left to flee.

"There you are." Evans touched her elbow, leaning his head in close to speak near her ear. "I was looking for you."

It was unfortunate for Evans to be in the same place as Jonah at the same time. There was no help but to compare the two, and where Evans was attractive, Jonah was gorgeous. The kind of man that belonged shirtless in an underwear ad. Stop it , she growled to herself, tearing her eyes away from Jonah just as his lit on her.

"Sorry, but I've got to go," Moira said, breathless. She had to leave, now, before Jonah came over. "It was nice to meet you, though."

She should have given her his number, should have told him to call her, should have faced Jonah like the adult she was and not the child she'd been, but she didn't. She ran out of the club, pushing past the dancers and the drinks, straight past Jonah, and out the door.

It was freezing, and she'd left her coat somewhere inside. Immediately, the sweat on her skin began to cool, and goosebumps covered her bare arms and chest. She glanced back at the club's door. The heavy thump of bass pounded through the walls.

"Wait, Moira." Jonah followed her out, shrugging into his coat.

Emboldened by the wine, she spun on him. "Why are you here? I was having a good time until you showed up, you know."

"I'm sorry," Jonah winced.

He looked her over, and she waited for the cruel comment, the snide joke about the way the dress fit around her hips or how the color made her look like a vampire. She braced for it when he opened his mouth.

"You must be freezing. Please take this." He slipped out of his coat and held it out to her.

Moira glared at him and at the coat. "I don't need your coat."

She spun on her heel and started walking down the street. He jogged to catch up, keeping pace beside her.

"Are you really going to walk all the way home? Can I call you a cab?" He didn't put his coat back on, holding it loosely between them as if she might change her mind and grab it at any moment.

"I need a walk," she said, "and I don't need company."

"I know you don't, and I know you're more than capable of handling yourself, but it's late, it's dark, and you're drunk," he said in a rush. "I won't say a word the whole time."

There were moments in Moira's life when Vera's voice became the one inside her head. Right now, she heard her sister telling her not to be so pathetic. That Moira must be so desperate for approval and attention, she'd even take it from the man who had made her life hell so many years ago.

"Don't say a single word," Moira demanded, snatching the jacket out of his hands.

She wrapped it around her shoulders, hating how warm it was, how it smelled like him, like soap and coffee and something that must be all Jonah, wild and sweet.

The tidy streets of Rosewood were safe, lined with streetlights and glowing lamps on front porches. She didn't need an escort. Was it fear that stopped her from telling him to leave, some remnant of that bullying where she found it easier to just go along with what he said rather than try to fight it?

Whatever it was, she couldn't stop stealing glances at him from the corner of her eye. She caught him looking at her more than once before he'd drop his gaze to the sidewalk, hands deep in his pockets. In the silence, she could pretend there was no history between them. She'd be thrilled if he were just a man, just a stupidly hot man walking her home.

Emotions twisted inside of her until it all became too much. She shifted and felt the sharp burn of human feelings fade away to a dull ache, the scents, and sights of the night flooding through her to take their place. Before Jonah could respond, she took off.

The Rosewood streets were so familiar, even at a run, she knew exactly where to go, winding closer to the town center. She felt Jonah on her heels, the thud of his paws on the sidewalk, his animal scent, and put on a burst of speed. Up ahead, the tree stood like a sentinel in the center of the green.

She fled to it, seeking shelter at its base. The grass was soft against her paw pads, and the leaves on low-hanging branches brushed against her back in greeting as she made her way to the trunk. There, she threw herself down against its roots, into the moss that pillowed the ground there.

Jonah loped up, hesitant. His eyes glowed in the night, autumn-leaf orange against his coffee-brown fur. He sat down a few feet before her, head quirked to the side. She could have run home instead and shut the door in his face, but she hadn't. There had been something driving her to that tree, something that compelled her not to shut him out, even as her fear drove her to do just that.

Was it fate? The Silversand soothsayer had decreed it, and even through her denial, she knew it would come true. She imagined their bond as chains, wrapping them together and dragging them down.

For the first time, she considered how Jonah must feel. He had never liked her, obviously, his bullying had told her that much long ago, and now he was doomed to be mated to her for all time. Yet he hadn't run away or lashed out at her.

Adria had said that he might have changed and not be the person he'd been so many years ago. People didn't really change, though. That's what Vera said, and when Moira looked at herself, she couldn't deny it. She was still the insecure, unambitious girl she'd been in high school, content with her small-town life and her little joys. If she hadn't changed, had Jonah?

She didn't want to run before she found out. She was tired of running in her home, tired of looking over her shoulder for the bogeyman. Her bogeyman was here, in front of her, and he wanted to talk. And if she wasn't the kind of woman who could confront her bogeyman, she would have to pretend to be. For one night, she could pretend.

Shifting, Moira settled herself into the root's embrace, finding a crook to lean against. She settled Jonah's coat on her shoulders and, with a steadying breath, patted the spot beside her. "Come and sit. We need to talk."

Her voice did not shake, nor did her hands, even as he came closer and shifted, taking the spot she'd indicated. He drew one knee up to his chest and wrapped an arm around it, tilting his head to look at her sideways.

"I'll tell you anything you want to know," he said, voice raw with an emotion she couldn't place.

His father had died. He'd left his pack to come here and found out he was fated to mate with a Rosewood. Jonah's world must be tilting on its axis, just as hers was. He was not the implacable bully from her childhood. She had the power right now when he needed something from her. Moira grasped that thought like a life raft as she pushed on.

"You're not leaving anytime soon, are you?" Moira ran her hands over the moss, focusing on the texture of the miniature forest rather than on the tension crackling between her and Jonah.

"I can't." He sounded desperate, trapped. "I thought when I first came here, I'd just pay my respects and go, even though I know it's my duty to take my place as alpha."

Moira interrupted. "You don't want to be alpha?"

It was surprising, based on the Jonah she'd known. In high school, he'd looked for the approval of his friends and classmates and sought it out in the laughter garnered from his bullying. Becoming alpha would mean a steady supply of approval and power.

He laughed quietly and looked down at his shoes, at her hand between them. "No, not at all. I liked helping Devon, being second-in-command, supporting him. But I don't want to be anyone's leader. I'm not… I'm not cut out for that. They'd just be disappointed."

You've got that right , Moira thought but didn't say. He looked so broken there, with the moonlight illuminating half of his face, that the words died on her tongue.

"You can't be worse than your father," she offered. "Sorry, I shouldn't speak of him that way, now that he's gone."

Jonah shrugged. "No, you're right, and I appreciate honesty. That's why I was torn on whether I should stay or not. My father dragged the pack down, nearly ruined it. Isn't it my duty to try and fix it now that he's gone?"

Moira thought of expectations, the way they settled on to shoulders and pressed down, harder and harder, as they were left unmet. They came from the outside, from family and friends, and from the inside as well, from self doubt. She knew all too well how they could overwhelm the inner voice that spoke of what was truly desired.

"I think you need to do what brings you peace," she said, after a long moment of silence.

"Is that what you do?" Jonah asked. He seemed eager to shift the conversation away from himself, and his eyes lit up when they landed back on her.

Moira, the confident, bold Moira she was tonight, wanted to say yes. Wanted to proclaim that she fearlessly chased her own inner peace and that the thoughts of others did not concern her. But the words wouldn't come.

"It's what I want to do," she replied.

"What stops you?" He leaned toward her, intent.

Looking up at the sky, away from his keen interest that she couldn't trust, Moira was able to answer. "Vera, sometimes. Myself, at other times. Life gets in the way, too."

He nodded and seemed to consider that. "And what is it that you want to do? What's your big dream?"

She searched his eyes for a hint of duplicity. Was he asking so he could use it against her, like the old Jonah would have? Or did he genuinely want to know?

"I just want to own that bakery and turn it into something amazing. I want to make the best wedding cakes, the kind that people come from hours away to buy." It came out of her in a rush, a tumult of words that she couldn't snatch back. "I know it's lame. It's not saving lives or—"

"It's not lame," Jonah said, firmly. "It sounds wonderful. You're an artist."

Moira gave a bitter laugh. "It's just baking."

His hand brushed against hers on the moss. She didn't pull away, her heartbeat quickening. They'd moved closer as they'd talked, leaning toward each other, faces just inches apart as they spoke their quiet words.

"It's your dream, Moira. And you should never be ashamed of it." His breath was warm on her cheek.

She couldn't stop staring at his lips, couldn't stop herself from leaning in even closer. His breath hitched, and she knew, somewhere instinctual and deep, that he was nervous. That she, Moira, was making Jonah nervous. It sent a thrill of power through her, made her bold.

Her lips darted against his, soft, searching. She wasn't expecting how she'd feel when they connected, how her body would come to life all at once, and how she'd hunger for more when he parted his lips. Moira let go of the fears holding her back and let her body lead the way.

It would have been satisfying in some way if Jonah had been an awful kisser, just like it would have pleased her to see that he'd gotten ugly as he'd aged. But in both cases, she did not get her way. He was gentle, tender, and teasing, and his hand slid up her back to cradle her neck, his fingers in her hair.

Laughter rang out across the green. Moira pulled back from Jonah, heart racing. A crowd of people came spilling out of a house, drunk and happy, engrossed with themselves, not mocking her. She felt warmth creep along her cheeks and was grateful for the low light, hiding her embarrassment.

"They can't see us from here," Jonah said, quietly, but he slipped his hand from her neck.

She wondered if he was grateful for the cover of night as well, grateful that no one could see him kissing her. Shame crept in, sinking into all of the places that had been thrumming a moment ago. It twisted into something ugly. Moira scrambled to her feet, brushing leaves from her dress.

"I need to go." Moira stammered. "Home. I need to go home now."

Jonah stood. He was taller than her by a few inches, enough that she had to look up to see his face. It was hard to read. The openness in it while they talked had vanished.

"Let me walk you home, please? I'll abide by our earlier agreement not to talk," he promised, flashing a crooked smile.

Moira sighed. Against her better judgment, she nodded. "Fine. But I expect perfect silence."

He mimed, zipping his lips and tossing the key over his shoulder. She rolled her eyes in response, fighting a smile. There was none of the false bravado that had rolled off of him in waves a teenager, the sort that would have cringed at the idea of such a gesture. It was refreshing.

They walked side by side, hands bumping occasionally. She tried to ignore the tiny buzz it gave her each time they made contact, tried not to read into him, not moving away to avoid it.

"This is me," she said, indicating her apartment. She could see Loaf's silhouette in the window, sitting up on the cushion, watching for her return.

He looked up and smiled but said nothing. Moira rolled her eyes again and pushed his shoulder.

"You can talk now," she said.

Jonah took a fake, gasping breath as if he were coming up for air after a swim. "Thanks for letting me walk you home, Moira. And thank you for listening to me and sharing your dream."

They stood on the doorstep, facing each other. It was small enough, its rusted railing close, that there was not much space between them.

"Right," she said, trying to tear herself away from his eyes. "Right. I should go up. Goodnight, Jonah."

"Goodnight, Moira."

He stepped to one side so she could open the door.

"Aren't you leaving?" She asked.

Leaning back against the railing with more trust than she would have had for the rickety thing, he said, "As soon as you're inside and safe, I'll be going. Don't worry, you won't find me sleeping on your doorstep in the morning."

A gentleman, making sure she got inside before he left. It was unnecessary but stupidly sweet. She felt him watching her as she turned the key and went inside. Shutting the door behind her, she slumped back against it and shook her head. The night had gone a way she could never have dreamed. Kissing Jonah? Really?

"Damn," she said, suddenly. She was still wearing his jacket.

It had fit so perfectly and warmly that she hadn't noticed she was still wearing it. She opened the door, but he was gone, not even a glimpse of his back to call out to. Moira shut the door again and made her way upstairs. Loaf greeted her at the door, winding between her legs and meowing, no doubt lecturing her for staying out so late.

"Hey you," she said, stooping to scratch beneath this chin.

He stalked off to the living room, tail high and reproachful. Moira kicked off her shoes. Before she hung it on the hook, she pressed Jonah's jacket to her face and breathed in his smell, indulging herself one last time before the night was through. Tomorrow, she'd be back in reality.