Devon turned her to face him and raised her chin. She looked up into his beautiful brown eyes, dancing with green and gold specks. “There is nothing wrong with you, Charity. Nothing. Do you hear me? You didn’t let any of this bring you down. Any of it. You’re a fighter. You’re a survivor. I aspire to be like you. If the others couldn’t see that, then it’s on them, not you.”
She dropped her forehead to his chest, hot tears running down her face.
“If it makes you feel better,” he said, rocking her gently, “my mother banned me from my house. I didn’t leave—I was forced out. I’m an orphan with living parents, just like you. Except, unlike you, it turned me into an asshole. A guy no one could get close to. Then you came along. You make me palatable.”
Laughter bubbled up with the pain. She took another deep breath. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I was doing fine, happily ignoring all of this. I finally had my life together.”
“And then you met me. See? I’m the real asshole here, not you.”
“I love you.”
He tipped her face up again and settled his lips onto hers. Despite everything, or maybe because of it, her body wound up. Heat pounded in her core. She wanted to escape into his embrace. To run from this, if only for a moment, and lose herself in the feel of his body.
“I’ve never had sex in my room,” she said against his mouth, feeling down his hard chest. “It seems like a shame.”
He groaned, and his arms jerked tighter. He tilted his head so his forehead rested against hers. “I’d love to take you right now, Charity, but your…Walt is knocked out in the front room, there’s a gun in the front yard, and we’re dealing with a few impatient shifters who don’t respect me and the ticking time bomb that is your magic. If there was ever a terrible time, this is that time. But I promise, as soon as it’s safe, I’ll give you the ride of your life.”
She smiled against his lips and took a moment to just hang on for dear life, feeling grounded in the storm. “Party pooper,” she whispered.
“It is killing me to be a party pooper, I assure you. I’m hard enough to cut glass. But being an alpha sometimes means saying no, apparently. Who knew?”
She sighed, returning to the moment. “Let’s get this done and get out before the man that is hopefully not my father wakes up.”
“If he isn’t, who is? Roger and Vlad think you come from a royalty line of warrior fae, but they haven’t come out of the Flush in…generations. Whoever it was must’ve had ties to them, except…who could that have been? Don’t you wonder—”
“No,” she said, searching the drawers. Her mother’s clothes were still gone—no surprise there. “I haven’t wondered about it yet, no. For two reasons. One, this is the first time Walt has ever implied I’m a bastard. He’s yelled every name under the sun at me, but if he had been armed with this ammo, he would’ve said something before now. Believe me. Even if my mom didn’t, he would’ve.” She crossed to the closet.
“And the second?”
She paused in pushing Walt’s faded and ratty clothes out of the way. As she contemplated the answer, she fought the tears. She fought the pain. “If Walt isn’t my father, then my father had no problem letting me be raised by that incredible asshole in this hellhole. I need to celebrate the possible win before I fall into the loss.”
Sadness flickered across Devon’s features. Charity felt that same sorrow permeate every fiber of her being. One parent who’d left her was bad enough, but add in a second?
The lid on her emotions wobbled. Tears filled her eyes again.
She pushed them away. She had a job to do here, and Roger was counting on her. She needed to see this through and get the hell out of here. When she was out of this cesspit and wasn’t fighting for her life, she could slide into the pain and the rejection. But if she did so now, she risked falling into the strong undertow of magic that was constantly pulling at her. She couldn’t afford to black out or go on a killing spree right now.
“If Walt is not blood related, that will have to be good enough for me,” she said, checking all the corners and cracks in the closet.