Chapter 7

Seven

IZZY

A pparently, all a girl needs in life is a single hour of destroying the ever-loving shit out of a dozen or so items.

Every second that passes seems to lift a weight off my shoulders. The tension doesn’t completely abate, but it’s no longer as suffocating as it once was. I can almost…breathe.

After the last item has been thoroughly destroyed, I step out of the room, remove my safety clothes, and thank Ted profusely.

“Come back anytime, kid.” The older man flashes me a wink before slapping his hand down on Ansel’s shoulder.

He whispers something to my new friend—too low for me to hear—and Ansel’s cheeks erupt into flames. Both men flick their eyes to me before quickly looking away.

“What was that about?” I ask Ansel as soon as we step outside.

The air is chilly, but the sun does its job well, reaching out with spindly rays to warm my skin. I still need my jacket, but the weather isn’t as bad as it could be.

“Nothing,” Ansel answers quickly. Too quickly.

I arch an inquiring eyebrow at him, but he focuses straight ahead with steadfast determination. However, instead of heading immediately towards his car, he surprises me by skirting to the side and stopping in front of another small building that reads Rosie’s Diner .

“Hungry?” he asks me.

I place a hand to my stomach, which suddenly resembles a bottomless pit. “Starving,” I confess. “Who knew destroying computers could work up such an appetite?”

Ansel grants me a shy smile as he opens the door for me to step inside.

The restaurant is nearly empty—no surprise, considering the time of day—and boasts red booths, checkered floorboards, and jukeboxes. A middle-aged waitress in a pink blouse and white skirt nods her head in greeting from where she stands behind the counter.

“Take a seat anywhere, and I’ll be with you two in a moment.”

Ansel instinctively grabs my hand— ohmygawd, he’s holding my hand— and leads me to a booth farthest away from the few patrons present. He slides into the booth, realizes he’s still holding my hand, and then releases me as if I burned him. A rosy flush paints both his cheeks as he grabs the menus out from behind the napkin dispenser.

“Errr…sorry.” He practically shoves a menu at me as I claim the seat opposite him.

A part of me wants to tease him and relish the red coloring his face, but I decide to change the subject.

“So…have you been here before?” I scan the menu quickly.

It’s early enough that they’re still serving breakfast, so I settle on pancakes, eggs, and bacon.

Ansel seems relieved at the topic change and closes his menu to give me his full attention. “Unfortunately more often than I’d like. I went through a period last year where I would spend most days with my uncle. He would come here every day after work. I think I have the menu memorized by now.”

There’s a lot to unpack in that statement—mainly why he would spend so much time with his uncle—but I push the questions aside for the time being.

“So what’s good? I was going to get the pancake platter, but?—”

“Go with the French toast,” Ansel interjects. “I’m not normally a French toast type of guy, but I have to say that Freddie in the kitchen has a magic touch?—”

“That sounds dirty,” I deadpan, and he throws me a look.

“You need to get your mind cleansed, Illy.” He chuckles softly, and my brain short-circuits.

Not because of what he said, but because of what he called me.

Illy.

I can’t remember the last time anyone used that nickname with me.

Ansel’s brows furrow, and he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“Just…that nickname.” I try to wave away my strange reaction the way one would a pesky mosquito buzzing around their head. “My mom used to call me Illy.”

A pregnant silence stretches between the two of us, but it’s not an uncomfortable one. I can see Ansel turning over that information in his head, piecing together everything he knows about me and my past—which is, admittedly, not much.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I won’t call you that anymore?—”

“No, it’s fine,” I rush to reassure him. And this time, my cheeks are the ones to heat. “I-I like it when you call me that.”

“You do? Because if it makes you uncomfortable, I don’t have to?—”

“No. I promise.” I wave another flippant hand in the air. “Sorry for being a weirdo for a moment there.”

“You’re the exact opposite of a weirdo,” Ansel tells me with a snort. Then his expression softens, turning gentler. “You don’t really talk about your birth family much.”

“You don’t either,” I point out instinctively, before realizing how bitchy I sound. I wince and backtrack. “Sorry. That was rude.”

“You make a fair point, though.” Ansel folds his hands together on top of the table and tilts his head to study me closer.

His light-brown hair is brushed in such a way to emphasize his high cheekbones and chiseled jawline. He really is a beautiful man—almost too beautiful. His perfection intimidates me, if I’m being completely honest. I feel utterly inadequate beneath his perusal.

“Cards on the table,” Ansel says, a frown touching his lips. “I don’t know my birth parents. My mom and dad adopted me when I was a child, after a few years in the foster system. Then my dad died…” Sadness flashes across his face, shadowing his ethereal features, those plush lips of his curling downwards. He looks as if he’s going to say more before changing his mind. “Well, anyway…I don’t know my birth parents.”

He punctuates the last sentence with a sheepish shrug.

I don’t blame him for not wanting to talk about his adoptive parents. I met his mom only once, and that moment…

A shiver works its way down my spine as I remember the vitriol she aimed my way. The raw, unencumbered hatred. She blamed me for the death of her husband, as strange as it sounds. I never even met the woman before, let alone her lover.

Conversation ceases as the waitress comes to our table to take our orders. She teases Ansel about being here with a girl—much to his embarrassment—before leaving with promises to return shortly with our drinks.

Alone at last, I remove my silverware from my napkin and begin to idly rip it apart. I have no idea why. I just need to move my hands, to find an outlet for all of this restless energy skittering just beneath my skin.

Ansel doesn’t push me to talk, which I appreciate, and I use the silence to get my thoughts in some semblance of working order.

“My parents died when I was young. Maybe four or five,” I confess in a rush. “I don’t remember them that well, but I know that my mom always used to call me Illy. When they died, I was put in the foster system, and I’ve been there ever since.”

Ansel begins to tap his lean fingers against the table. “When do you turn eighteen and age out?”

I smirk. “Today, actually.”

The color drains from his face. “T-today?”

“You didn’t know? I thought that was the reason for this whole spontaneous adventure.” I wave a hand in the air to emphasize what I mean.

Ansel shakes his head adamantly. “No. I didn’t… I didn’t know. If I would’ve…” He scratches absently at the nape of his neck. “I just saw that you were upset and wanted to make you smile.”

A plethora of butterflies releases in my stomach.

“I…I was upset, so thank you.”

Ansel opens his mouth to respond but pauses when the waitress returns with our drinks—a coffee for me and a Coke for Ansel. Only when she leaves does Ansel resume our conversation.

“Why were you upset?”

“I…” What can I tell him? Certainly not the truth. He’ll think I’m insane. Hell, even I think I’m insane. There’s nothing crazier than believing the paranormal exists and that you’re connected to it. “I discovered some of my friends were keeping secrets from me.”

His brows lower. “Secrets?”

“Secrets that involve me,” I explain. “And when I confronted one of them about it, he made me feel like it’s all my fault in the first place. Like I’m the problem.”

A thunderous expression crosses Ansel’s face. “Let me guess. Does this ‘friend’ have a name that starts with Ash, ends with Ton, and rhymes with Ass-ton?”

A wry chuckle escapes me, especially at his use of my own nickname for the asshole. “That obvious?”

“I know that you’ve been getting…close to him and his friends. But Illy…” Ansel hesitantly reaches across the table until he brushes his pinkie against mine. Heat emanates from where he touches me, as if he houses some internal fire. “If he’s treating you badly, then throw his ass to the curb. You deserve more than that.”

Those damn butterflies return with a vengeance. I can feel them flapping about in the pit of my stomach.

“Trust me. I don’t want anything to do with Ashton and his dumbass friends. Not until they apologize and beg for my forgiveness.”

And even then, can I forgive them? We’re apparently—god, this sounds insane, even to my own ears—mates. What does that entail? Sex? Am I going to be forced to be with them like that ? In the carnal sense? Ashton hates me, Reid is indifferent to my presence, and the other two…

I don’t want to think about that. About them. I still have free will, and right now my mind is screaming at me to run as far away from them as I can. They lied to me. Hurt me.

Who’s to say they won’t do it again?

Perhaps there’s a way to break this so-called mythical bond.

I make a mental note to speak to Christian about it. He may just be the only person—wolf shifter, whatever—I can trust when it comes to the paranormal.

“Good.” Ansel’s pinkie brushes mine again for a fraction of a second before retreating.

A tendril of heat unfurls in my chest.

He clasps his hands together and straightens nearly imperceptibly, adopting picture-perfect posture that makes me feel like a troll in comparison. “Now…what big plans do you have to celebrate your eighteenth birthday?”