The One We Answer To: A Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 3) (37 page)

The dream itself wasn’t that bad.
 

I was with my son in a park I can’t name—in the dream I didn’t even know I was with Lachlan until the very end—and I was lifting him up and swinging him in the air with that joy unique to parents of small children.
 

Lachlan was laughing.

I couldn’t see his face. It was blurred out in that odd way some dreams are. But I knew it was him. Lachlan was laughing as I lifted him into the sky.

“Up, up, up you go, little bird!”
 

I’d say the same thing every time I lifted him.

“Up, up, up, you go, little bird!”

Lachlan laughed, kicked his little feet and waved his baby-chub arms in the air.

Three times. I always said it three times. And in the dream, when I said it the second time, I
knew
what was going to happen. I knew I had to stop myself from saying it that third time. Every fibre of my being shrieked at me not to say it.
 

But I always did.
 

“Up, up, up you go, little bird!”

And suddenly my son stopped laughing.

The dream became silent.
 

I was still spinning and lifting him, but it was like watching a silent movie. The sun rotating overhead. The sky crystal blue. And my son, spinning and laughing without sound.
 

That was it. The dream ended.
 

Not that bad, right?
 

Well.

The next thing I knew I was…
emerging
from sleep. Very slowly. Part of me, some secret consciousness, understood I was asleep, and having the familiar nightmare again, and for a moment I felt…
trapped
between the worlds of waking and dreaming.
 

Like I was in transit from one world to another.
 

In both, but of neither.
 

I wasn’t scared yet. Not yet.

But then what happened was…while I was in that strange state between worlds…my son’s laughter started again. It wasn’t threatening or frightening. It was just him laughing as I spun him, except this time I was almost awake and the dream was gone and there was only darkness and the sound of my son laughing and that’s when I realized my son was dead.

I’d open my eyes and be in my bedroom.
 

Hear someone sobbing and realize it was me.
 

Feel wetness on my cheeks.
 

And the loss and grief at my son’s death…it was so real for a moment it was the only thing that was
truly
real. The dream-world was gone, and yet I wasn’t fully immersed in this one. So all I had as I lay there sobbing, all I had to make me…real…was the knowledge that my son was gone forever.
 

And that? Yeah.
 

That was terrifying.

***

There. That laughing sound?
 

My son. Laughing in the half-dream darkness.
 

My beautiful baby boy.

Returned to make me suffer what for what I’ve done.

***

I wake screaming my son’s name.
 

At first I think I’m calling for him.

Lachlan! Lachlan!
 

But that’s not what I’m doing.

I’m screaming his name to try and drown out his laughter.

Trying to make him
stop
.

***

The sky billows above me.
 

An odd green color glowing in the darkness.

Then a flapping noise.

I groan, blink through the heaviness weighting eyes.

Where am I?
 

Aaron?

“Aaron?” I whisper.

Nothing. The asshole’s deserted me again.

Left me to die, like he did when he dumped me in the alley—

“Aaron!” I try and yell. But I’m too weak. The word comes out a bare whisper. Tears track down my cheeks. I hug myself, shiver against an unnatural cold. A cold so deep I feel my bones grinding together.
 

“Please Aaron please,” I whisper.

The flapping sound grows louder. Like fabric caught in fierce wind. Then a rustling sound and a shadow looms above me. I cower down, trying to sink into the earth, hoping this shadow doesn’t scent me—

“Lil?”

It’s him. My bloodmate.
 

Relief floods into me. I try and sit up.
 

Manage to barely lift my head.

Aaron’s powerful arms slip under my back and wrap around my chest.
 

He’s holding me. Just holding me in his heavily muscled arms.

He’s warm. Wonderfully warm.
 

I fight the urge to press close.
 

What he said. About loving me?
 

It’s not enough. Even if it’s true.
 

Not after what we’ve done to one another.

Love isn’t a magic cure for all ills. You can’t apply liberally and make the bad turn good. The bad’s still there, still hurting.
 

All love does is make leaving harder.
 

I never expected to see him again. Thought I didn’t want to. Or at least…most of the time I believed that. And now that we’re together…all I can think about is what I did. Aaron’s a constant reminder of our unborn child imprisoned in the Bloodless Land with Opiyelguabiran the Dog God. And the longer I’m with Aaron the shittier it’s gunna feel if I don’t tell him. Already the guilt’s worming into my gut. At least before, when he wasn’t around, I could tell myself I’d get our son back and Aaron would never need to know.
 

But now?
 

Every second I don’t tell him is another lie wedged between us.
 

“I shouldn’t be here,” I say.
 

“You’re safe,” he whispers. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

I bite my lip, stifling a cruel laugh.
 

I haven’t been safe since I met him.

“No. I mean here. With
you
.”

Aaron ignores me, traces his fingers across my cheek.
 

Don’t touch me, I want to scream.
 

And: please hold me. Don’t ever let go.

This horrible, shattering collision of emotion. How much I need and want my bloodmate battling how much I hate him and want to be rid of him.
 

I lick my chapped lips. Taste blood.

But it’s not him I hate. Not truly.
 

I hate what I did.

I gather my strength and ask, “Where are we?”

Aaron settles beside me. “In a tent. In the forest on the side of the road. Luxury accommodation, dirtbag biker style.”

I can’t help but smile.

I try and sit up again. Fail. “You said we need to move,” I say, trying to sound determined. “We can’t stay—”

“Quiet now, Lil. Please be quiet.”

Something in his voice. Nervousness? Fear?
 

“Why?”

A heavy pause. “Because I think we’re being hunted.”

I hear the anger burning in his voice. He’s not used to being prey. And something about his fear softens me, just a little.

“Stricken?” I ask.

“No. Something else. Do you remember the vultures we saw over the fields on our way to Tate’s mountain hangout?”

“Yeah.”

“Them.”

Birds. Up, up up—
 

I cut the thought short and ask about the professor.

“Alive. No doctor. But we got him the medicine he needs. You also.”

“How?”

“Trish told us about Mia’s New World Order jerkoffs. Sent Blue and the rest of my finest out roaming for them. My boys hit the jackpot.”

The New World Order? I loose a long breath. It feels like decades ago.
 

“They all—”

Aaron tenses. “Fuckers didn’t part with the spoils willingly.”

They’re all dead.

I expect to feel something about that. But there’s nothing.
 

It’s like I’ve been hollowed out—
 

I reach up, touch my bandaged forehead and am rewarded with a sharp stab of pain. “I’m still not healed.”

“No. You’re healing real slow. Like a Skin.” Aaron pauses, then says, “She with you?”

“Not since Tornarsuk attacked me.”

“She took off. Lost her Risen pack. She’s stronger with them.”

“Help me sit up.”

“Lil, it’s not—”

“
Help
me sit up.”
 

Aaron slips his arm out from under me, then cradles my shoulder and raises me into a sit. I peer through the dim green-grey light, trying to get my bearings. The tent walls are billowing in a fierce wind. Aaron’s sitting beside me, cross-legged, wearing his black Levis, a black wifebeater and the Pureblood cut, looking at me with concern wrinkling his brow. I take in his gorgeous tats and ripped muscles.
 

Something’s different about him.
 

I stare at the outlaw for a long while, trying to discover what’s changed and just soaking up his features, trying to memorize every detail of the man I marked as my bloodmate. The stern jaw. The fierce, arctic-blue eyes and full lips and dark, wavy hair.

The fucking bastard.
 

Even now…after everything…I still want him.
 

He’s about to say something. I reach out and put two fingers to his lips, gently. Aaron’s eyes widen. I run my fingers across his jaw, down his neck, over the swollen bite-mark I left on his upper shoulder.

Aaron winces.

“Still tender?” I ask.

He nods.

“Good.”

Then I see it. “The collar,” I stammer. “It’s—”

“Gone.”

“How?”

Aaron gives me a sardonic smile. “Because of you. When you tried…”

His voice trails off. He looks away.
 

When I tried to murder him.

“I’m sorry, Lil. I truly am.”

I lower my gaze. “You can stop saying that.”

“Because you forgive me?”

“No. Because you’re wasting your breath. I’ll never forgive you, Aaron of the Mountain River. Not ever. And I’ll never forgive
myself
…for this…”

I lean over and kiss him. Once. Soft. On the lips.

He feels exquisite.
 

That feeling of being drawn to him, of being unable to resist even if we’re shit together…it’s even stronger now. There’s something ancient and blood-deep in how badly I want him.
 

I force myself to pull away. Mad willpower.
 

Aaron draws a shaking breath. His face crumples with hurt and confusion.
 

He thinks I’m fucking with him. Maybe I am.
 

But it’s not intentional. It’s just—
 

“What is this, Lil? What do you want? Because I fucking
want
this. More than anything. I thought…I’d never see you again. And I went into my wolf, deep into him, hoping to go wild. Feral. Hoping to forget. But even then, in my animal, I still remembered. Something was drawing me out of him. I needed to talk to you, try and…not right the wrong. I know I’ll never do that. But just tell you…that if I could do it all over again…I’d try and live the kind of life that would make…
us
…possible. You know?”

“What kind of life is that?”

“A good life,” Aaron says, scowling at himself. “A
just
life. Less centered on myself. Less about what I need. Less…asshole-ish.”

“You’re not an asshole,” I say.

“You don’t know me very well.”

“I know you well enough.”

I reach out and hold his hand. He’s so warm.
 

Shitballs.
 

Keep it together, Lil, I think. Send him out. Boot him right the fuck out of the tent. Or else just tell him. Tell him what you’ve done! But he’s so wonderfully warm, and I’m still shivering with cold, and so I hold the dirtbag outlaw’s hand and say, “Self-centered? Yeah. Arrogant? For sure. Moody? Definitely. But you’re not an asshole.”

“Why not?”

“Because real assholes don’t worry about being assholes. It’s like the defining feature of being an asshole. Not giving a shit about how anyone else feels. You, Mr. One-Eight-Seven, you care about other people. You care a whole lot.”

“I do care. But I do shitty shit sometimes.”

“We all do.”

Aaron looks unconvinced.

“Look at your crew,” I say, still stroking my bloodmate’s bare shoulders. “Are they morons?”

“What?”

“Are they morons?”

“No. Well…not all of them.”

“Right. So you think that entire biker MC would follow you to the death if they thought you didn’t give a fuck about them?”

“No.”

“Of course they wouldn’t.”
 

I wriggle a bit closer. Just a bit. Close enough to reach out and lift his wifebeater over his head. I want to touch his muscled, heavily-inked shoulders. His arms. I want to kiss—

But when I get my bloodmate half undressed something besides his ripped muscles catch my eye. I reach out and grab a turquoise amulet framed in silver hanging around his neck. Underneath, around his solar plexus, there’s a fresh scar. The skin mottled pink and tight and smooth.

The scar my animal burned into him. Another mark…and I can’t help but wonder, is this what Aaron and me are? A series of marks we’ll scar into each other, day after day and year after year, a history of hurt written in flesh?

“What’s this?” I say, pulling Aaron and the amulet closer.
 

It looks old. The silver tarnished grey.
 

Aaron doesn’t answer.

“Where’d you get it?”

“From a woman.”

I scratch my fingernail into the turquoise. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah.”

“Was she?”

“I guess so. Sometimes?”

“You
trying
to piss me off?”

Aaron laughs quietly. “Didn’t think it’d bug you.” He points to the scar on his chest. “After all the drama. Thought I was a free agent.”

“Is that want you want to be? A free agent?”

“No.”

I grind my teeth together. Count to ten. The fucker. I tell myself to let it go. It’s better this way. Easier. But instead I blurt out: “It
does
bug me. Who was she?”