“Neither does twenty-three and three-quarters.”

“Faythe?” my mother called, and we both looked up, startled. I stepped away from Jace and realized that if we hadn’t looked suspicious before, we did then.

Smooth. So much for not telling anyone yet…

“Are you ready?” I asked, and she nodded. “I’ll go with you. Jace, could you check on Kaci? Tell her I’ll be there in a minute?”

He nodded and ducked into the house, pushing the door closed behind him.

My mother and I walked in silence for almost a minute, our shoes crunching first on gravel, then on the frozen, well-worn path through the east field. The main house lay behind us, long and squat, a one-story ranch house my father had designed before I was born. The barn stood ahead, much older than the house and picturesque with its peeling red paint and tall gables. I’d lived most of my life in and around those two buildings, but I’d never once imagined myself living there without my father.

I hadn’t even been in the house yet, but already home didn’t feel entirely like home without him. I felt like I was playing pretend, or like I’d wake up any moment from a nightmare.

“So…you and Jace?” my mother said, and I froze, then had to jog to catch up with her.

“Was it that obvious?”

“Subtlety was never your strong suit, Faythe.” She stopped to look at me, and I searched her eyes for disapproval or reproach, but I found nothing I recognized, other than the fact that she was searching for something in my eyes, too. “You love him.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement uttered with the confidence of long-held authority on the subject.

“Yeah. But we don’t have to talk about this now. It’s not really the time….”

“Faythe, there’s never going to be a good time for this discussion, and I think you know that.”

I nodded. Whether because she had advice to offer or because she wanted to distract herself from a reality she soon wouldn’t be able to avoid, she obviously wanted to talk about my screwed-up love life. And I would have done anything she wanted in that moment, if it would help her deal with our mutual loss.

“What about Marc?”

I sighed and absently kicked a rock at my feet. “I still love Marc so much it hurts to turn around and not see him next to me. Jace is something…different. Something separate, but strong.”

My mother frowned, then finally nodded. “You have to choose.”

Why does everyone keep saying that? “I know.”

“Marc is Alpha material, Faythe, and if Jace ever starts to show any Alpha tendencies…this could get very bad.”

“He already has tendencies,” I said, and she nodded again, as if I’d just confirmed her suspicion. “How did you know?”

“I knew because I know you. You’re strong, Faythe. Too strong for most toms. Most tomcats will either expect you to obey them, because you’re a woman, or to lead them, because you’re an Alpha now. But you’re only ever going to love men who will be led by you, yet can hold their own with you. Men who challenge you.”

I shook my head hesitantly. “But Jace doesn’t challenge me.” Not yet, anyway…

Her sad smile spoke volumes, and her eyes seemed to peer right into my head, and maybe my heart. “Yes, he does, or you wouldn’t be interested in him. My guess is that he challenges you to be true to yourself. That he dares you to take risks you’re secretly dying to take, and to feel things you’re afraid to let yourself feel.” She closed her eyes, and when they opened again, they shined with aching wistfulness, and some spark of excitement I couldn’t comprehend. “He makes you feel alive, doesn’t he? Like the entire world is one dangling live wire, just waiting for you to grab on and ride the current.”

I stared at her like she’d suddenly started speaking Russian—and I understood it. “How on earth do you know that?”

Her smile grew wistful with distant memory. “I know because your father was my live wire.”

Twenty

The barn doors were closed, and knowing my father’s body lay beyond them made his death feel somehow even more real—more devastating—than when I’d witnessed his last breath.

“Mom, you don’t have to do this.” I slid one arm around her shoulders while we stared at the doors, neither of us moving to open them.

“Yes, I do.” She swallowed thickly, and that spark of memory—my father as her live wire—was gone, replaced with pain and dread so thick and heavy I could practically taste them on the air. “If I don’t see him, I’m never going to really believe it, because he’s alive in here.” She laid one trembling, gloveless hand over her chest. “He’s so alive inside me that I can still hear him.”

“What is he saying?” I asked, as her face blurred beneath my tears. I’d failed her more than anyone.

“He’s calling me a coward.” Her voice broke on the last word, and she sniffled in the cold, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes suddenly more defined than I’d ever seen them.

“No, Mom, he would never call you a coward.” Not even if it were true. He would never intentionally hurt her, and he’d never forgive himself for doing it unintentionally. “You’re hearing yourself.” She was the source of my frank tongue, if not the coarse language that often fell from it.

“I know.” She sniffed again and stood straighter. “But it sounds like him. He’s daring me to go in there and deal with this, so I can come out stronger and ready to do what has to be done. The funeral and the packing.” She faced me then, eyes wide with real horror. “Faythe, I don’t think I can pack up his things.”