Chapter 83: Sadie: History Lesson

SADIE

Trey closes the door quietly behind us, and I follow him a few steps down the hallway before he stops and turns toward me.

"Grandma needs to sleep," he explains. "When she’s like that, pushing her to talk can upset her. Sometimes she becomes hostile, so it’s better to let her rest."

"Oh." I nod as his quick move to the bed starts making sense. "And the thing you did with her hand? Was that to calm her down?"

"Yeah, the massage helps. So do the poems I was reciting," he tells me. "They’re ones she likes and used to say a lot. She recognizes them."

I almost raise an eyebrow.

Yes, I know his grandmother and I are not competing, but he complains whenever I give him a book, and now I find out he’s memorized whole poems? I wouldn’t have guessed that about him. Makes me wonder what else he’s capable of when he isn’t busy telling me what he won’t.

"You’ve really got all of this figured out."

"I’ve been taking care of her for a while," he replies. "It’s nothing."

A while could mean anything coming from him, but he was too familiar with what she needed for me to believe it’s only been a few months. I swear he’s an onion. Just when I think I’ve worked him out, another layer comes off.

"Would you teach me how to do that?"

He starts to answer, then pauses.

"The hand massage," I clarify. "And which poems she likes. I don’t want to be sitting there wondering what to do if it happens again."

"You want to learn?"

I shrug, suddenly aware that coming once doesn’t mean he wants me here every time. "I’d like to come with you when you visit. If you’re okay with that."

He nods, his smirk returning. "I’ll teach you. Didn’t think I’d live to hear you admit there’s something you can’t do."

I nudge him with my elbow. "I’m human, Trey. Not a robot or an alien from another dimension."

"Well, Miss Not-a-Robot, want me to ask someone to get a room ready in the guest wing? We’re staying the night."

I wait until a staff member passes before moving closer. "Where’s the guest wing? Is it near your room, or am I going to be on my own somewhere?"

It’s probably a perfectly nice room. Everything here costs too much for it not to be, but I’d still like to ask without my questions reaching the Alpha. Imagine getting taken out for criticizing a bedroom I haven’t even slept in yet.

"Why are you whispering?" Trey asks, at a volume that defeats the whole purpose.

I step back, pressing my lips together, then answer. "I’m being respectful of my environment."

He grimaces. "You’re positive there’s no spaceship waiting for you somewhere?"

My elbow meets his side again. "Just answer."

"The guest wing’s on the other side of the estate. Near the staff quarters," he tells me. "Far, far away from my room."

He puts real emphasis on the distance and I know he’d rather have me in his room. I’m not missing that, but I’m also not volunteering to spend the night alone somewhere I’ll need directions to find. Horror movies have taught me not to separate from the person who brought me, especially when he doesn’t like the house either.

I tip my head up, trying to decide which arrangement is worse for my peace of mind. We share an apartment, not a bedroom, and using his bathroom has taught me to keep some space between us. Once he gets close, I start wanting him closer, and there goes every sensible reason I had for staying away.

He must read enough of that on my face, because his hands slide into his pockets.

"You’ll take the outer side of the bed. Don’t hog the blanket, and don’t worry. I don’t bite."

He strides away, and I lose my chance to correct him. He does bite. We both know he bites.

I hurry after him. By the time I catch up, we’re climbing so many stairs I start wondering why I asked about a bedroom instead of an elevator.

"Where are we going?" I ask, trying not to sound as out of breath as I feel.

"My room."

At this rate, walking around his house every day would have me losing ten pounds in a month, and his grandmother would blame him for every one.

"Did you text your little study group?" he adds, taking the stairs easily. "Tell them you’re not coming?"

"Little?" I scowl at his back. "There’s nothing little about my study group."

"Did you text them, Sadie?"

"Yes. On the way here."

He leaves it at that, and I follow him onto the landing, grateful to find a hallway instead of another staircase. It’s wide as a room on its own, with tall photographs lining one wall and deep green banners hanging between them, each bearing the pack’s golden wolf.

Sunlight from the opposite windows catches the frames and brass plaques, and I slow down as I realize who’s in the photographs.

The previous Alphas and Lunas.

"Oh my gosh, Trey. You have a hall of fame. Did nobody suggest making it a normal size?"

He’s several paces ahead, then stops and meets my eyes. His expression has gone flat, a look familiar by now, so I don’t question it. I wave him back, already leaning toward the first plaque.

"Alpha Edmund Hale and Luna Beatrice Hale," I read. "They established the first pack school."

Both sit straight-backed in the faded photograph, the Luna’s dress fastened all the way to her neck. The Alpha’s scowl survives the years better than some of the details, and I can tell he wasn’t friendlier in person.

I move along the wall, reading the plaques while the clothing changes with each generation. Nobody has been caught mid-conversation or distracted by someone beside the camera.

Every couple looks prepared for people like me to come along and examine them, until I reach two whose smiles make me stop.

Alpha Nathaniel Calder — 1974–2005

Luna Evelyn Calder — 1976–2005

They led before Trey’s father, but they look so young that I read the dates twice. Neither can be much older than thirty. His smile is nearly a grin, while she rests a hand on his shoulder, brown curls falling around a face that makes me wonder what she was like when she wasn’t posing.

The warmth between them makes it easy to imagine her laughing at something he said right before the camera caught them.

I can’t move past the dates yet.

They look so happy together that I struggle to connect them with the gruesome story I’ve heard. No wonder Trey struggled to talk about it. Someone took both their lives, and standing here makes the cruelty of that feel much less distant.

My finger traces a short stretch of the frame while I imagine Evelyn years later, older and still smiling beside her mate. Neither got the chance, and I’m about to move when my heart gives a sudden, violent thump.

I pause, goosebumps racing down my skin. It’s the Delta Rho party all over again—that feeling of a presence entering my body, of knowing it’s there even when I can’t explain what it is.

But I’m not upset. There’s nobody to argue with, and the excitement of coming up here has worn off, so what brought it on this time?

My fingers clutch the side of my jeans as I turn back to the couple. They’re only posing for a camera, like everyone else on this wall. Nothing about that should cause this, yet moving away takes more effort than it should.

The next portrait gives me something else to focus on. These are Trey’s parents, and I don’t need to read their names because he’s inherited every one of his father’s features without leaving anything behind. Ezra looks like him, too, but his mother managed to contribute a few features there.

I face Trey, half tempted to ask whether he left anything for his brother, but he’s still at the far end of the hallway. His cold demeanor makes me keep that question to myself.

Beside the Alpha stands Luna Helena Mercer, her arm linked through his. She has a gentle smile, and I linger on her a little longer before reading the plaque.

Luna Helena Mercer. 1979–2011.

I know she died from poison, and I’d put the chances of someone being responsible at about ninety-five percent. But reading the year beneath her name makes me think about how young Trey must have been when it happened.

My eyes return to her smile, and I wonder what it’s like for him to pass this photograph whenever he comes home. Does he remember her exactly this way, or are there things about her he’s started forgetting? She never got to see the man standing down the hallway, and I can’t imagine how many times he’s wished she could.

I glance at him again, ready to say something, only to realize he isn’t facing the photographs at all.

Shit.

He’s been avoiding them, hasn’t he?