Nobody needed to say that it wasn’t a good idea to bring up what happened at the strawberry moon dance to Amelia. It’s common fucking sense.
But Sherry Creed somehow got the notion that Amie didn’t know and wanted to stir shit by being the one to tell her. That fucking bitch has spent most of her life doing whatever she can do to make people miserable. She gets high off it. She’s got a long history of causing shit and wreaking havoc and I’m done with her bullshit. If I see her face again, I’ll have to fight the urge to rip her throat apart. Shred it. She’s evil.
I haven’t slept and I’m feeling like garbage. Garbage being assaulted with regret. Garbage feeling the pain I’ve caused my beautiful mate. My beautiful mate who’s broken because I allowed this to happen.
Amelia drifts off and eventually, I do, too.
I wake up alone and fuck! I rush downstairs and outside in time to find her opening the driver’s side door to my truck. It’s blocking her car, so I don’t know if she’s planning to take it or move it so she can back out, but I give no fucks. I slam it shut and keep it shut by holding my weight against it.
She looks me in the eyes and her face looks ravaged. Grief-stricken. It’s like she’s enduring a war. And I’m not fucking letting her walk away.
“Where are you going?” I demand.
“I don’t know,” she whimpers brokenly.
“Not happening, Amelia.” My voice comes out gruff. I lift her up into my arms and press my lips against her forehead as I carry her back inside.
She pounds my chest with a fist just once and then buries her face in my throat and bawls her eyes out some more as I carry her to the living room and set her on the couch while pulling her bag off her shoulder and dropping it. I lay her on her side and facing her, I wrap my arms around her and purr for her.
She buries her face in my chest and holds onto my shirt. She’s not crying now. She’s just burying her face in my shirt.
I hold tight and we stay there like that for a long time.
It’s at least an hour, maybe two, neither of us speaking. And I’m grateful my purr still comforts her. It’s all I can do right now. And maybe that’s why alphas have this ability. Because we can’t help but fuck up with our mates, so at least there’s this.
The doorbell ringing pulls us both out of our heads and our eyes meet.
“It’s my parents,” I say.
“I’ll get rid of them.”
She lets go of my shirt.
She’s upstairs after I’ve come back in from getting my parents to leave, obviously hiding in case Skye managed to push her way in like she wanted to do. It wasn’t easy to call my mother off, she’s rabid to get her hands on my mate, to convince her that she’s wanted here, that she’s loved, despite my bad judgement call in keeping things to myself that should’ve been said. She even pushed the door open and yelled around my body blocking her for Amelia to hear, that her mating with my father was without her consent. But that it was worth it. That Ivy knows it’s worth it and that Amie has to stop and think about that.
My father told me not to beat myself up, that he’d have made that same call – wait to tell her the tricky stuff that went down until it feels like the right time.
I knew what I was doing. In hindsight I knew my mate wouldn’t take well to the news of what Tyson did to Ivy. Ty and I made a joint decision to keep the girls apart until the wedding. But I didn’t factor in her feeling like a consolation prize when she found out the truth. And while I know part of that is because of the bullshit she just went through with her ex and all the things that came to light; I don’t know how I can make her realize that I feel like the luckiest fucker around here that she’s mine.
“Give her time. It’s been a blow. It’ll take time for her to process,” Dad said.
“He’s right. We’re here if you need anything. I brought food. And the wine Amie likes,” Mom advised as Dad passed me a cardboard box with covered casserole dishes as well as four bottles of wine.
I thank them and ask them to spread the word that I don’t want any visitors for a couple days. In fact, not until we start showing our faces.
I find her upstairs in bed, under the covers hiding from me, so I go down to the second-floor loft and unplug the television and the streaming box, and carry them upstairs and set them up over the fireplace. I then move the bed on an angle so she can see the television if she wants to. I put on Schitt’s Creek. She said it was a favorite show, a comfort show, so I leave the remote on top of the blanket and go back downstairs to put the food away.