A Mate for Lu - Amy Bellows Page 0,27

pair of underwear on the floor.

His smile widens. “I do.”

“Well then, I’ll be counting down the hours.” I wrap my arm around his naked body. “Next Sunday we’ll do brunch, okay? I promise.”

“Okay.”

I leave him smiling. At least there’s that.

Next week, we’ll have a better plan. Next week, I won’t feel like I’m leaving my heart behind as I sneak out of his house before his daughter wakes up.

Or that’s what I tell myself.

16

Lu

There are lots of different kinds of art. Sometimes a drawing is an expression of an idea. Sometimes it’s the embodiment of pain that can’t be held inside any longer. And sometimes art is nothing but a wish.

When Sam leaves me, I want to cry, or at the very least, draw the pain that’s white-hot and throbbing in my chest.

But I know he’s doing his best, and I have to be strong. So I spend the morning painting wishes.

After a breakfast of oatmeal and strawberries, I get out the watercolors, brushes, and paper from my paint box. Mary’s jumbo crayons and cheap paper go on one side of the table, and the new paints and thick paper Sam bought for me go on the other. It’s a routine Mary’s familiar with. I help her into her booster seat, and she picks up her green crayon with an eagerness that soothes my raw heart.

There are some days the lines and color move through me like magic. I paint our dining room table full of the family I wish we could have. Morgan and Parker are eating waffles, while Sam and I cook. Jesse holds Mary in their lap. As I work, I hum the simple tunes my fathers hummed to me when I was little. Mary joins in now and again with her high-pitched, choppy voice.

As I add in details and smooth out the rougher lines, flashes of last night haunt me. Sharing Sam’s pebble. Holding him in my bear arms. The lust in his eyes when he saw my lacy underwear for the first time.

I don’t think I’ve ever been truly happy. Not until last night. But like my relationship with Sam, it’s a happiness that can only exist in the darkness.

It’s almost worse than never being happy at all.

Halfway through the morning, my phone buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket to see a text from Sam.

Wish you were here.

Along with the message is a photo of Jesse sitting in front of a plate of pancakes, peering up at the camera uncertainly.

I snap a photo of Mary, who has managed to get crayon all over the table. She grins up at me with an innocence that won’t last forever.

At some point she’ll figure out Sam and I were sneaking around without telling her. I don’t know how she’ll feel then. Will she be angry about the siblings she could have had? Will she be painting wishes someday too?

Am I teaching her to be complacent about her dreams by capturing mine on paper instead of expecting them to come true?

I send Sam the photo of Mary with the words, She misses you too.

Maybe I shouldn’t say that. It’s almost like a guilt trip. Sam said things would be different next week. He promised. But my omega father once told me that alpha promises are like fire—bright and beautiful in the moment, but without a little nudging and kindling, they flicker out.

I’ve never had the courage to nudge anyone before. Not even when Mary’s alpha father left. But I’ve never had a pebble under my pillow either.

The next wish I paint isn’t of Sam or our kids. It’s a close-up of the kind of necklace my brother used to make—the kind of necklace I want to wear around my own neck.

Like an alpha’s promises, a pebble can be lost, unless it’s attached to something. Now I can understand why penguin shifters made a deal with my great-great grandfather. Sam’s pebble is far too precious to stay untethered.

Luckily, I don’t have to travel halfway across the world to strike a deal with magical bears to get a bond necklace. Cy would make one for me in a heartbeat. I just have to get Sam’s permission to wear it.

I’m not sure that’s ever going to happen.

Sam sends another text.

We’ll do dinner as a family on Tuesday.

That’s two days away from now. It seems like an impossibly long time.

For now, I’ll keep gathering my wishes. You don’t put a big log on top of a new fire. You feed it