down the way you feel about him? You’re going to be able to stand by and watch him be with someone else? You’re going to be able to resist him—resist what you want—when he does fight for you?”
* * * *
I hadn’t answered Tink’s question, and he hadn’t expected one, but I had thought about it. I’d spent the rest of the day and a good part of that night thinking about it, and every time I said that, yes, I could resist all of Caden’s attempts, there was a little laugh in the back of my mind.
But what other choice did I have?
Restless after downing a glass of orange juice and a small army’s worth of eggs, I took the prenatal vitamin and roamed upstairs, my head in a really weird place.
Slowly, I went down the hall of the second floor, past the closed door of the office, beyond the room Tink had commandeered, and to the other closed door—the one my mother had used.
I could use her room for the baby. My stomach wiggled like it always did whenever I acknowledged being pregnant. That was if I was still here then. The community in Florida was a stupid idea, but there were a million other places. If I was here, though, the room would be large, but since the small one that had once been a nursery had been converted into a walk-in closet ages ago, it was the only option. Well, unless Tink ever moved out. His room was smaller. Maybe he’d want the larger one?
Pushing open my bedroom door, I halted just inside the threshold. Last night, I hadn’t really paid attention when I climbed into bed, too caught up in my thoughts. Now, I cataloged every square inch as if looking for something to be different. The drapes had been parted, letting in the morning sunlight. The velvety-soft cream bedspread had been smoothed back from the thick pillows. A pair of slippers I always left out but rarely wore waited by the bed. A fluffy and chunky gray throw blanket was draped over the chair by the window. It looked and felt the same. The room even smelled like I remembered. Like pineapple and mango.
But I wasn’t the same.
My gaze made its way to the closet. I forced my steps forward. Opening the closet door, I switched on the light. What I saw first were the wigs in various colors and lengths, the knee-high boots and spiky heels, and the skintight dresses. They were all costumes designed to hide my identity while I hunted the fae responsible for killing my mother. I didn’t need them anymore. I’d succeeded. They were all dead now, and those wigs and dresses…
They’d become a part of who and what I’d been shaped into. I ran my hand over the Lycra material of a red dress that I wouldn’t have dared to wear five years ago. The outfits, the wigs, the shoes—all had aided me in finding the fae responsible for killing my mother, but they’d also done something else. They’d given me the confidence I’d been sorely lacking.
But this stuff still wasn’t me. They were words written in blood and tears for a chapter that had come to an end.
Pivoting around, I hurried downstairs to the pantry. Black garbage bags in hand, I went back to the closet and started cleaning house. Everything went. The wigs. The shoes. The dresses—well, almost everything. I couldn’t bear to part with the studded mid-calf boots or the silvery sequined dress. Those boots were surprisingly comfortable, and the dress…
It was the outfit I’d been wearing when I killed Tobias—one of the fae I’d been looking for.
And it was the dress I had on the first time I came face-to-face with Caden in the club.
For that reason alone, I should toss it with the rest, but I hung it back up between the thick, oversized cardigan and the blazer I never wore.
Pulling open the drawers in the center dresser, I breathed a sigh of relief when I spotted the extra sets of iron daggers and cuffs. I closed the drawer and then picked up my makeup case. Setting it on the counter inside the closet, I flipped the switches and rooted around, pulling out the heavier makeup—the stuff I wouldn’t even wear for a fancy occasion.
Not that I attended many fancy things.
I dumped the makeup into an old grocery bag and walked out—
Caden stood in the doorway of the bedroom, arms loosely crossed over