Chapter 13: Childhood Echoes

I sit quietly in the bedroom I was frog-marched into some hours ago. The food tray some random Santo dumped in here for me remains untouched, as I have literally no appetite. I am laid out on the bed, staring at the endless white ceiling of a room that probably cost more to decorate than they spent on the orphanage the whole time I was in it. I'm bored out of my mind, but since my explosion, nothing in the house is working. There is no electricity and no lights, and they are working on rectifying it. I'm still not convinced I did this, but it all seems to point that way.

Apart from the boarded-up window and the now-décor-free shelves—after they swept through to remove the carnage of smashed items—it's pretty nice. It is done in gold and cream with brown leather and opulent fabrics. It's like a hotel boudoir in a five-star establishment and bigger than the entire lounge and kitchen at the Reject's home.

The Santos always were one of the wealthiest packs in Radstone, and it shows. Their pack house is a mansion with endless corridors and rooms, and they have stuck me in their west wing, far from everyone else in the building until they figure out what I can do. I could scream and erupt in here and no one would hear me.

The house is now echoing with distant banging, drilling, and all sorts of construction sounds as they try to secure their abode once more, and I can't say I feel any kind of remorse. I mean, at first, I was in shock—kept questioning if I really did that, if I was capable—and now, I'm numb once more. Shunned to an unused part of their building; nothing has changed from being one of the black marks they left to rot on the darker side of the mountain. I'm exhausted, in need of sleep, but completely blank to all other emotions.

A light tap on the door draws my attention from trying to count cracks that aren't there, and I know before they open it who it is. I can feel him. I felt him making his way down the hall towards me moments ago, and I really don't want to see him, or anyone for that matter.

That intense excitement at his presence that was there before is waning with everything that's happened since. The bond isn't weakening, but my own emotions are overpowering everything else right now. I am grieving a family I never knew was mine and replaying the horrors, while also trying to push them deep down in the recesses of my brain.

"How are you holding up in here?” Colton's voice sways my way as he slides in, carrying that sultry sexiness that still manages to elicit tingles on my skin. He closes the door behind him quickly, and I catch sight of him checking the hall before he does. It's obvious by his swift maneuver that he shouldn't be in here with me and is defying some rule—probably from his father, or maybe Carmen—checking that no one followed him to the empty side of their palace. I sigh, look back at the ceiling, and ignore him, annoyed that he is a part of all this and just another member of a pack that has outcast me for years.

"Still pissed, huh?” There's a defensive quality in his tone, not his usual commanding strength, and I roll away to face the wall and turn my back on him. I said all I needed to downstairs, and I don't know why he can't just leave me alone. He told me that's how it was going to be that day in the forest, and yet he’s the one who keeps breaking his word and reaching out to me. He's pretty useless at staying away, and it doesn't help.

Every contact, every conversation, just makes our bond grow stronger, and I feel like I really do know him. It doesn’t matter if our interactions to date have been sporadic and brief; I know him inside and out in ways that only imprinting can give you.

“I don't blame you. What you said before.... It's true. I did make a choice, but you know why, Lorey. Don't hate me for that. Not that right now any of that holds significance with current events. The elders are in lockdown in the grand hall; I couldn't stand being in there anymore. I had to come make things right with you and to talk.” I hate that he has a nice voice—unique, sensually melodic—and that it alone is enough to affect me.

I close my eyes to blot him out, wondering if the topic of the day is vampires or the freak wolf who just busted their house up. Not that I care enough to ask. I remain still, don’t react, open my eyes again, and continue to stare at the shadowy and uninteresting cream-painted wall. My body is betraying me in small ways at his nearness, but I clamp down on the sensations winding through my limbs and stiffen to stop his effect on me.

"Say something, please.” Colton appears closer in a flash, and I jump when the bed dips behind me. His warm body slides up close against me as he also lays out and slides an arm around my waist to turn me. I don't resist, but let him roll me onto my back, pulling my face to him until we are almost nose to nose, leaning over me, scooping down to bridge the gap. It is an intimacy he shouldn't be encouraging.

The room isn't brightly lit, only glowing from candles in the far corner—seeing as I smashed every bulb in the house—so he casts a shadow over both of us, making it near impossible to really make him out. I shiver involuntarily at our close contact, feeling instant goosebumps from his touch and his general effect on my body and soul. I curse the Fates for making me crave his touch, even when I'm seething inside.

“Something.” I mumble lackadaisically and catch a slight hint of a cute boy-smile from him, making him handsomer. He seems amused at me for giving him attitude, and it serves the purpose of softening me a minuscule amount. I can't deny the way contact with him always calms me, brings me instant peace when he’s not being a jerk, and sends my body and senses into high alert, even when I feel like this. I push my bitterness aside and let his warmer mood seep in.

"You asked me a question downstairs. You asked me if I even remembered you.” It is softly spoken, the way a lover would whisper to you while held in their arms. He lifts his hands to trace my cheek with his finger, removing a strand of hair that I couldn't even feel, and leans down closer towards me so his breath fans my face. For a moment, I wonder if he might kiss me again. I shake it away mentally, knowing how stupid I'm being. He already made it clear we would never be that.

He raises a brow as though expecting me to at least say something to that, but I stare at him blankly and give him nothing. My head is busy with ludicrous thoughts, and I try to empty my mind before he picks up on it.

“It's like that, huh?” He sighs, adjusting his position so he is propped up on his arm, hand fisted against the edge of his jaw, and gives me a little breathing space. He moves back a few inches, but is still pressed against the side of my full length, and still touching my face. “Two summers ago, before Carmen and I started dating. You were wearing a green dress, serving candy floss at the meadow festival. You served me, wouldn't look me in the eye, and when you passed me my change, you dropped it on the ledge rather than hand it to me. You had a yellow flower in your hair.” His voice is soft and husky, and I try hard to lock on his gaze as my memory dashes backwards, trying to pinpoint what he’s remembering. It's vague, but I remember the festival and the way his whole pack spent the entire day lording over the rest of us and causing mayhem. It was a "nothing" day, and nothing sticks out as memorable about it.

“You have my memories, so how do I know you're not just tapping into one of mine?” I blurt out, a little stubborn indignation in the mix because I know he’s trying to get me to be a little less mad at him. It wouldn't be hard for him to look backwards and see me when he has all of mine in there to choose from. Colton smiles, shaking his head softly with a frown; he lifts his fingers to my temple and gently presses, projecting his memory to me, among the many we share.

An instant mental visual of that sunny day appears, and there I am, standing at that cart, making floss, and looking like maybe the day wasn't as bad as I remembered. I have a strappy dress in a nice shade of mint green that brings out a golden color in my hair. My tousled waves are blowing free in the wind, and for a second, I look almost carefree. Maybe even pretty. I can see me, so these aren't my memories—they're his.

I watch myself at a distance, turn, and spot the group of Santos heading my way. I look towards this person—this head I'm inside—and instantly put my nose down and go into full submission. You can almost taste the change in my disposition as I realize they're coming to my stall, and I'm not happy about it. I pull his fingers away sharply, cutting the visual; I've seen enough, not wanting to watch any more of how feeble and unworthy I always was in their presence.

“Doesn't prove anything.” I shrug and turn my face from him, not wanting to revisit any memories of those men making me feel like trash anytime they had to talk to me.

“The memory's from my eyes, not yours. It proves plenty. Do you want another?” There is a cocky hint to his voice, and I can almost feel the smirk as his hand comes back to rest on the flat of my stomach—a little too comfortable for my own liking. It annoys me how easily he finds this slide into "touchy-feely" when he’s the one who chose to sever our ties. He has a woman somewhere in this house pining for him, and yet here he is again, touching me like I'm still his property. For once, I actually feel like Carmen deserves better; that maybe he lost his affection for her, but she didn't for him, and he should still care about her feelings. This would hurt her if she saw us like this.

"Okay, so you remember me. Whatever. It doesn't mean much, except we interacted before. A few times, actually. Of course, in the memory banks I'll be there. That wasn't the point of what I was saying. All that memory shows is you saw me and managed to remember it, not that it served any importance to you.” I roll away, pushing his hand off me fully—hinting for him to give me space—and return to my previous position. I bristle internally with the war going off inside my head and return to irritation. I hate the fact that all the usual little tells are starting to go off inside me at his proximity and my body is beginning to yearn for him again.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” Colton pushes me in the back of my shoulder lightly, almost teasingly, and I shirk him off. Not impressed with him trying to turn this around, I roll my eyes. He's being a little too flippant for a guy who spent tonight ripping apart vampires.

His focus should be on our impending doom and our life from here on in, not whatever this is. Reminiscing the “good old days” and adding weight to why he will never rebuild trust with his chosen “mate.” He's not exactly acting like he cares about doing it from what I've seen.

"Don't be stupid. How could I not remember the Alpha son of Lord Santo? I've known who you were since birth.” I answer with dripping sarcasm. He's starting to grate on me now. I mean, we share every single memory each harbors, so it's pretty dumb telling me I wouldn't know something that he does, or that I didn’t remember him all these years. How could I forget the guy who walked around for ten of them like our lord and king? How could I not know the son of the man who ordered my kind into exile?

I don't get a chance to hit him with any kind of comeback. His hand comes at me from behind and he feels out my temple once more, projecting from the many hours of mental movies a single one that shoots to the forefront in the blink of an eye and renders me mute. I inhale sharply as the visual of my mother comes to view, winding me instantly and pushing me to complete, still submission. My beautiful, angelic mother is holding my hand as we walk around the edge of the lake near the cavern, and I'm young—really young. The place is near where he asked me to meet him that day in the forest. She's laughing, fixing the bow in the back of my hair that's keeping it all off my face, and yet I'm seeing it from the eyes of someone in the water. I'm a kid—maybe seven, maybe eight—but I recognize myself. I recognize her too: my breathtaking mom and that dazzling smile, those blue eyes that are missing from my life. It tears at my soul, the pain cutting into me and slicing away some of my armor.

She walks me to the edge and lets me go so I can play and go for a swim. I run forward and splash into the water, no sign of hesitation. A brave little girl who thought she was capable of anything when sheltered in the shadow of her family. I clumsily gallop, splash in "cannonball" style, and dive under as soon as I get waist-deep, her calling encouragement from the edge as she watches me. I can't pull my mental sight from her face, her laugh, the way her voice echoes in the air around us and surrounds me with a unique warmth, like she’s hugging me now.

If I'm Colton in this memory, then he watches me for a minute, too, dragging my eyes back to me, and she fades off out of the scene. I have no control of where he looks because this is his memory. He follows my progress as I swim across the lake, and then he’s pulled sideways; I'm suddenly seeing water, submerged in bubbles and blurry sight, hands in front waving as I swim back to the surface. I am coughing and spluttering as another boy blocks my view. I recognize him as one of his closest Santo pack—a boy called Matteo who is usually in Colton’s shadow wherever he goes. He was in the study earlier today.

“Do you like her or something? Why you always staring at her, Cole? Is she why you made me come here? I feel like she’s wherever we go nowadays.” He teases, pushing me back, and all I hear in response is...

“Shut up. She has a name. Get out of my face and stop being dumb.” It's Colton’s voice. Undeniable, even at such a young age—that smooth undertone of immature depth that grew into how he sounds now. The completely defensive edge and embarrassment hint that his friend is right, and I know from learning so much about him lately that when he gets caught out, he gets bristly and hostile. It starts to dawn on me what he’s showing me as he lets go and breaks the projection.

I turn on him at speed, eyes wide and gawping. I'm not really sure I just interpreted that the right way, but what other way could I?

“You liked me?” I blurt out accusingly. I don't understand. That memory is long before the wars catapulted into our life and changed everything. A time I can barely remember, and I definitely don't recall on that day either of us having any kind of memorable interaction. He stayed with his friends and I stayed with mine, and then I went home with my mom before the sun went down. I would have to claw through the memories to be sure, but there was nothing to suggest he even noticed me.

“I had a crush on you, like you wouldn't believe. I don’t know how many times I tried to talk to you and got completely blanked or lost my nerve. I used to hang out where I knew you would be, but then the war happened, and you became..." His voice tails off, eyes averting, shame washing over his expression. I know what he means without him finishing.

I became a black sheep. One of the shamed.

My family died, and our people scraped up the remains and shunned my kind to the darkest corner. One of the rejects, and much like everyone else, he would have been told we were cursed and to keep his distance. Colton was a kid, and I guess his father really drummed it into his head that I was unworthy. His crush died, he forgot me, and he moved on with his life—onto Carmen.

"Why are you telling me this? I don't remember you ever trying to talk to me. I don't recall times where you were there in my childhood.” Not that it means anything. Now it's just hurting me all over again, knowing that even then, he bowed to his father's will and rejected me, long before that day in the woods. If we were destined, then he failed me twice.

Colton sighs, pulls me close by the waist, and brings my face back to his so that he can move in and rest his forehead on mine. It is the kind of intimacy you would expect from a mate, and I have to remind myself that we're not anything close. I don't relax into his touch, but stay like cardboard, refusing to melt into him or succumb to his power over me.

“I was shy, and you were this fearless, confident girl that walked around with her friends, oblivious to any of us. Boys were dumb and you all liked to make a point of avoiding us at all costs.” He points out with a smile, reminding me a little of memories gone by—so well-buried to save my heart from the pain of losing my family that I almost blocked them out completely. A time when the packs lived in proximity but kept to their own. A time when the Santo boys were just “that bunch of idiots from the south side” and had no authority over the rest of us.

It feels like a million years ago now, when life was normal and I had a real home. My own warm bed in my own little pink room on our farm. I had parents, a brother, and grandparents. I was happy and carefree and had no idea there was a storm coming that was big enough to take it all away from me. There was a time when I was just another wolf child, and Colton and his friends were not our superiors, but a rival pack; we had no real animosity. Not between kids, anyway. The fights were for the grown-ups.

I smile at the possibility that Colton was once shy. I mean, I don't believe it now with who and how he is, but raking through my memories—stored in my brain that belong to him—daring to push back to the "before," where all my visions pain me still, I guess I can pinpoint a few that show a much quieter boy. He turned young, and at first, he wasn't the fearless, aggressive wolf that we all know him as now.

He was sweet at some point in his life, until I guess he was hardened with whatever responsibility his father laid on his head. He was nine when the wars happened, and as a boy who already ran with the pack, he would have lost so many years of childhood in taking over in his father's absence while protecting his family.

We had attacks here, too, and many young boys had to fight for our survival. I don't doubt he was one. I can almost see the point in which he turned away from anyone who wasn't a Santo, pushed people away, and stayed in his own little bubble, snarling at others who dared to come too close. Colton the shy, sweet boy, and me, the fearless, bossy girl who didn't let others push her around.

Oh, how the tables turned.

"So you knew me. It doesn't matter.” I sigh finally, realizing he has worn me down enough to get me talking to him, and I'm no longer sulking in silence and staring listlessly at a ceiling. Instead, I'm lost in a million thoughts, feeling all kinds of sad and depressing things. This is why I never walk down memory lane to see who I used to be. I'm also betraying my own willpower; I have at some point curled up against his chest and pushed one foot between his ankles, snugly—cuddling up so easily that I didn't even know I was doing it. I reverse, moving back a little, screwing my face up at how potent this bond can be.

Colton narrows his eyes and stares at me for the longest moment, knowing this direction of conversation is futile and doesn't really change anything. Even if he did remember me, if he liked me, we are where we are, and it's not really important anymore. He can't undo what is done, and who I am now.