Stray
Page 13
“Until they find Sara and whoever took her. You can speed up the process by giving us a description.”
“Get it from Marc,” I snapped, daring him to admit he’d barely seen the stray.
I took a step forward, and Michael stood, preparing to stop me. I rolled my eyes. “Relax, I’m just going to my room. Otherwise known as my prison cel .”
He glanced at my father. Daddy nodded, and Michael sat back down.
Spine stiff and chin high, I marched toward the guarded exit. Marc averted his eyes as he held the door for me, but I could feel his gaze on my back as I plodded down the hal .
In my room, I slammed the door and leaned against it, my eyes roaming wal s I hadn’t seen in years. I crossed the floor in an instant, using speed I hadn’t had the nerve to display in front of my father. When I pressed the power button on my stereo, music blared to life through speakers Marc had mounted for me on my seventeenth birthday. My hand hovered over the volume knob as I considered turning it down. But then footsteps clomped down the hal outside my door. I turned the music up instead and flopped down on my stomach on the bed.
Welcome home, Faythe, I thought, eyeing the brand-new security bars on my window. For now.
Four
A soft scratching sound came from the halway. I rolled onto my back, staring at the door. The scratching came again, and I sat up on the bed, sniffing the air. My nose works much better in cat form, but even on two legs I could identify each of my brothers’ scents.
“Go away, Ethan,” I yel ed, not bothering to screen irritation from my voice. My misery didn’t want company.
The knob turned, as I’d known it would, and I leapt to my feet as the door swung open. A dark head appeared in the gap, and I found myself looking into eyes barely a shade greener than my own. “Damn it, Ethan!” I propped both hands on my hips, in unconscious imitation of my mother’s angry stance. “You can’t waltz in here anytime you want, just because my door doesn’t lock.” Daddy had snapped the lock the time I shut myself in and tried to sneak out the window. And he’d steadfastly refused to replace it.
“I didn’t waltz. And I’m not technical y in.” Ethan leaned against the door frame, naked from the waist up, a half-eaten Granny Smith apple in one hand. He wore his typical lopsided grin, the one that said nothing in the world could ever real y bother him. When we were kids, his inescapable optimism had frayed my nerves, but now I found myself welcoming that distinctive smile with one of my own. I couldn’t help it. His attitude was contagious.
“You stil mad, or can I have a hug?” he asked. I shrugged. It wasn’t his fault Marc had dragged me home.
Ethan set his apple on my dresser, and before I could blink he’d enveloped me in his long arms, my cheek resting on a chest smooth enough to be mistaken for a boy’s, if not for an obviously mature physique. And it wasn’t just his chest. Ethan was two years older than I was, but you couldn’t tel it from his cherubic face, al dimples, wide eyes, and long, gorgeous lashes.
He squeezed just a bit too hard, to show me how much I’d been missed. Then he swung me in a complete circle as I squealed, taking me back to my childhood, when I’d spent every summer tagging along behind him and Jace, just in case they decided to let me play.
He set me gently on the floor, then plopped down on my bed and leaned back, propping himself up on his elbows. The pose was familiar enough to send a pang of nostalgia ringing through me. As children, we’d spent hours sprawled across my bed, making fun of Michael’s latest girlfriend and laughing at Owen’s most recent attempt to sneak a terrified pet past our mother.
“So,” he said, stil grinning. “Got your escape planned yet?”
“Like I’d tel you if I did.” I curled up at the head of the bed and pul ed a smal , fril y pil ow into my lap. It was one of those worthless, decorative things that do nothing but get in the way. My mother bought it, assuming I’d like it because I had ovaries. She was right, but for the wrong reason. I used it when I needed something to punch.
“You think I’d rat you out?” Ethan asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“I know you would. That’s your job.” He didn’t deny it, and I couldn’t work up any real indignation. Trying to hold a grudge against Ethan was like trying to catch a fish with your bare hands. Not impossible, but damn near.
A soft shuffling sound from the doorway drew my attention. At the threshold stood Owen, my third brother. He was just tal enough that a chunk of his perpetual y tousled hair brushed the top of the door frame. Dark eyes met mine and a smile spread across his face, slow and sweet as his Texas drawl. “Hey, sis, I heard you were home.”
“Owen!” I crawled off the bed, tossing the pil ow aside, and ran toward him.
He met me in the middle of the room, scooping me up into a hug to shame al others, the kind that pops your spine and steals your breath, al in the name of brotherly love. Owen was our resident farm boy, cowboy hat and al . He smel ed like the land, like dirt, fresh water and hard work. His jeans were torn and permanently stained, which meant he hadn’t changed out of his work clothes yet. But then, he hardly ever did. Or, more accurately, he hardly ever stopped working, which eventually turned all his clothes into work clothes.
“Aren’t they feedin’ you up there?” he asked, holding me at arm’s length for a better view. “You’re lookin’ kinda skinny.”
“She looks good to me,” Jace said from the doorway. He dropped my suitcase on the floor and snatched Ethan’s apple from the dresser. Grinning, he took a big bite and sank backward into my desk chair, his arms crossed over the arched back.
“Get it from Marc,” I snapped, daring him to admit he’d barely seen the stray.
I took a step forward, and Michael stood, preparing to stop me. I rolled my eyes. “Relax, I’m just going to my room. Otherwise known as my prison cel .”
He glanced at my father. Daddy nodded, and Michael sat back down.
Spine stiff and chin high, I marched toward the guarded exit. Marc averted his eyes as he held the door for me, but I could feel his gaze on my back as I plodded down the hal .
In my room, I slammed the door and leaned against it, my eyes roaming wal s I hadn’t seen in years. I crossed the floor in an instant, using speed I hadn’t had the nerve to display in front of my father. When I pressed the power button on my stereo, music blared to life through speakers Marc had mounted for me on my seventeenth birthday. My hand hovered over the volume knob as I considered turning it down. But then footsteps clomped down the hal outside my door. I turned the music up instead and flopped down on my stomach on the bed.
Welcome home, Faythe, I thought, eyeing the brand-new security bars on my window. For now.
Four
A soft scratching sound came from the halway. I rolled onto my back, staring at the door. The scratching came again, and I sat up on the bed, sniffing the air. My nose works much better in cat form, but even on two legs I could identify each of my brothers’ scents.
“Go away, Ethan,” I yel ed, not bothering to screen irritation from my voice. My misery didn’t want company.
The knob turned, as I’d known it would, and I leapt to my feet as the door swung open. A dark head appeared in the gap, and I found myself looking into eyes barely a shade greener than my own. “Damn it, Ethan!” I propped both hands on my hips, in unconscious imitation of my mother’s angry stance. “You can’t waltz in here anytime you want, just because my door doesn’t lock.” Daddy had snapped the lock the time I shut myself in and tried to sneak out the window. And he’d steadfastly refused to replace it.
“I didn’t waltz. And I’m not technical y in.” Ethan leaned against the door frame, naked from the waist up, a half-eaten Granny Smith apple in one hand. He wore his typical lopsided grin, the one that said nothing in the world could ever real y bother him. When we were kids, his inescapable optimism had frayed my nerves, but now I found myself welcoming that distinctive smile with one of my own. I couldn’t help it. His attitude was contagious.
“You stil mad, or can I have a hug?” he asked. I shrugged. It wasn’t his fault Marc had dragged me home.
Ethan set his apple on my dresser, and before I could blink he’d enveloped me in his long arms, my cheek resting on a chest smooth enough to be mistaken for a boy’s, if not for an obviously mature physique. And it wasn’t just his chest. Ethan was two years older than I was, but you couldn’t tel it from his cherubic face, al dimples, wide eyes, and long, gorgeous lashes.
He squeezed just a bit too hard, to show me how much I’d been missed. Then he swung me in a complete circle as I squealed, taking me back to my childhood, when I’d spent every summer tagging along behind him and Jace, just in case they decided to let me play.
He set me gently on the floor, then plopped down on my bed and leaned back, propping himself up on his elbows. The pose was familiar enough to send a pang of nostalgia ringing through me. As children, we’d spent hours sprawled across my bed, making fun of Michael’s latest girlfriend and laughing at Owen’s most recent attempt to sneak a terrified pet past our mother.
“So,” he said, stil grinning. “Got your escape planned yet?”
“Like I’d tel you if I did.” I curled up at the head of the bed and pul ed a smal , fril y pil ow into my lap. It was one of those worthless, decorative things that do nothing but get in the way. My mother bought it, assuming I’d like it because I had ovaries. She was right, but for the wrong reason. I used it when I needed something to punch.
“You think I’d rat you out?” Ethan asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“I know you would. That’s your job.” He didn’t deny it, and I couldn’t work up any real indignation. Trying to hold a grudge against Ethan was like trying to catch a fish with your bare hands. Not impossible, but damn near.
A soft shuffling sound from the doorway drew my attention. At the threshold stood Owen, my third brother. He was just tal enough that a chunk of his perpetual y tousled hair brushed the top of the door frame. Dark eyes met mine and a smile spread across his face, slow and sweet as his Texas drawl. “Hey, sis, I heard you were home.”
“Owen!” I crawled off the bed, tossing the pil ow aside, and ran toward him.
He met me in the middle of the room, scooping me up into a hug to shame al others, the kind that pops your spine and steals your breath, al in the name of brotherly love. Owen was our resident farm boy, cowboy hat and al . He smel ed like the land, like dirt, fresh water and hard work. His jeans were torn and permanently stained, which meant he hadn’t changed out of his work clothes yet. But then, he hardly ever did. Or, more accurately, he hardly ever stopped working, which eventually turned all his clothes into work clothes.
“Aren’t they feedin’ you up there?” he asked, holding me at arm’s length for a better view. “You’re lookin’ kinda skinny.”
“She looks good to me,” Jace said from the doorway. He dropped my suitcase on the floor and snatched Ethan’s apple from the dresser. Grinning, he took a big bite and sank backward into my desk chair, his arms crossed over the arched back.
