Page 41 of Brock’s Mate

She should not belong to him, his wolf said.

Brock snarled inwardly. She doesn’t, he said. She’s free.

Desi was staring at him—or, more accurately, staring at the middle of his chest where the sound was coming from. He forced the growl back. Then he forced himself to let go of her arm, which turned out to be harder.

“He had no right to do that to you,” he said.

“Well, he did.” Desi pushed her sleeve down. “I was sick for a long time after. A couple weeks. I wanted to leave but he wouldn’t let me. I thought he was still giving me drugs, because I’d have these blackouts and bizarre nightmares…”

She broke off. Brock said softly, “And then they turned out to be true. You were Changing into a wolf.”

“Looks that way.”

“How did you get away?” he asked.

Desi eyed him. “I told you. It’s my superpower. I watched. I waited. I faked being sicker than I was. I found his knockout drugs and I gave him a taste of his own medicine—and a little pain to go with it.” She held out her hand, palm out.

“And then I hotwired his car and got the hell out of there. Sold the car to a guy I knew on the street, and just kept on running.”

He noticed she’d left out the fake IDs.

He looked down at the list. She’d given Jered’s last name—though that might not be real—and the names of all of his friends she could remember. The bar they’d hung out at, his apartment in Denver, and an approximate location of the ‘lake house.’

She said, “I can show you where the lake house is on a map, or close to it. I was kind of out of it when I was driving away, though.”

He nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “Once your wolf stabilizes, I can turn this over to my contacts on the Shifter Council, so they can go after these guys.”

She growled. “Happy to help.”

He wanted to tell her how brave she was, how proud he was of her, but he knew she didn’t need or even want that kind of praise. The kind of life she’d had, people fought for their lives every day, and nobody gave you applause for it. You either survived or you didn’t. End of story.

Instead, he touched her pottery dish lightly with his finger. He said, “I’m sorry this got broken. I guess I missed a few fragments when I picked up the pieces.”

She gave a little smile. “I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”

Brock frowned, not understanding. “Then why are you putting it back together?”

She said, “Kintsugi.”

Which meant absolutely nothing to him. His confusion was obviously clear on his face, because she explained, “It’s a Japanese art form.”

She pulled another piece out of her box—a small pot a little bigger than her fist. It, too, had once been broken and repaired—but all the cracks looked like they’d been filled with gold. The golden lines glowed in contrast to the blue-green glaze, making an asymmetrical spiderweb of beauty.

He took it from her, turning it gently in his fingers. “That’s amazing.” He looked up at her. “Did you do this?”

She nodded. “After the epoxy is cured, I put a layer of filler over it to get any other gaps. When that’s dry, I put on lacquer for however thin or thick I want the line, and then I apply gold dust while the lacquer is still sticky.”

“And you get this. Out of a broken piece of pottery.” Reluctantly, he handed it back to her. It called to him—he didn’t want to let it go. “Where did you learn to do it?”

Her face went shuttered again. “From an old man I used to know, when I was a little girl. He taught me how to make pottery, but he also taught me kintsugi. For the Japanese, it’s not just art. It’s a philosophy.”

Brock waited, sensing this was something she felt deep inside, and not wanting to break the spell. He wanted to know this piece of her, that had kept this one thing from a childhood she’d slammed the door on.

Desi said softly, “The idea behind it is that things don’t have to be perfect and pristine to be valuable. They can be used, dropped, even broken—and still be just as precious and beautiful. In fact, their cracks and flaws are the pathway to even greater beauty.”

“So now your dish will be even more beautiful,” he said.

“If I give it the care and attention to make it that way. And if I choose to see its beauty.”