Page 170 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

“No,” Lincoln said, eyes on Damien. “He needs the truth. I love you, Damien. I’m also furious with you. Both can live in the same room. And we’ll leave you with that to think about.”

Damien looked up, and for the first time since he arrived, something moved through the wreckage that wasn’t anger. It wasn’t enough yet, but it was something.

We left him standing in the guest apartment with tears on his face and no apology ready in his mouth.

When the lift doors closed, Lincoln leaned back against the wall and covered his eyes with one hand. “You said it.”

“Yes.”

“That you love her.”

My chest ached. “Yes.”

“Good.”

The lift rose toward the penthouse.

“Do you think she’ll believe it?”

Lincoln lowered his hand, his eyes red. “Not from here.”

The doors opened to our empty home, where Mary’s scent was fading.

We had chosen her. Now we had to convince her she could come home without needing to protect us from the cost.

Chapter 28

Mary

By the second afternoon in Surrey, I had seven paintings around me and absolutely no evidence of emotional stability.

The room Maeve had given me smelled of turpentine, and not much else, but that was my fault. My easel stood by the window where the light came. Canvases leaned against the wall. One had the orchard half-finished. Another was nothing but river light, which was unhelpful because I wasn’t in London and apparently my subconscious had become a traitor.

The others were messier. One was a flash of black coat, a hand on glass, violet under storm clouds, and a door I had painted three times.

I painted like something was chasing me, with fast strokes, too much color, and a desperate need to get the feeling out before it could take flight. Today, I stood in front of the canvas with my brush in my hand and waited until I knew where the next line belonged.

My body had calmed, which was also new.

The panic had gone. My heart still hurt if I pressed it, and I’d pressed it often enough. I wanted them to bridge the distance with Damien more than anything else. I didn’t want to be in the middle of that place. But I painted slowly because it reminded me of Hudson and Lincoln’s silence when Damien claimed I’d set everything up.

I dipped the brush into a blue paint, added a little black and white, and then added a thin stroke to the sky.

“Well,” I told the babies, “your mother has become atmospheric. Very unfortunate for everyone.”

They didn’t answer.

“Strong silent types. Suspicious. Just like your fathers.”

The bedroom door opened with the stealth of a small person who thought stealth meant pushing something slowly while breathing loudly.

Mila waddled in.

She wore yellow leggings, one sock, and a blue sweater with a white rabbit on it. Her dark hair curled around her ears, and her cheeks were pink from either sleep or criminal activity. With Mila, it was best not to assume.

“Hello,” I said.

Mila looked at me, then at the paintings, then at the chair by the window.