I lied.
It was a mistake.
Now my mate hates me.
Can I blame him?
For readers:
*I will update as I please. Don't be rude about it. Thank you.
*I do my best to proofread before publishing, but some typos and errors will slip through. Feel free to poi...
Author's Note: Trigger warning with spoilers, so if you don't want spoilers, skip past the below paragraph, the photo below that, and head straight to the first copyright symbol:
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SPOILERS: This chapter may be difficult for some. The bond is some serious energy, and it doesn't take kindly to being ignored. It will complete itself. I think I've painted this possibility out in previous chapters. With that said, I do not write smexy scenes. You will not see this scene come to life. It fades to black. Neither Rowan nor Willow is in control, and they won't be present mentally. I think it's important to note that if either of them had been in control, the bond would not have been completed. Rowan meant it when he said he didn't want to force Willow back to the pack. He had plans to woo and apologize and beg if he ever found her. As for Willow? Well, she would rather eat rocks than go back to the pack.
Now to the salon!
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Have you ever woken, knowing the day would be bad? Because that's exactly how I felt this morning, and I can't figure out why. Nothing seems to be different or out of place, yet everything feels like that's all about to change. It's almost like that feeling when standing at the edge of a cliff-you're safely grounded, but with one wrong move, you'll fall, and when you finally hit ground again...well, let's just say nothing will be the same.
Crash!
I jump out of my thoughts with a racing heart as my head snaps toward the sound. Misty, another server, is on the ground picking up silverware.
"Sorry," she says, "so sorry. Don't mind me. Just a clutz!"
Shoot. I'm way too on edge. I need to calm down and breathe. Gently, I allow my lungs to fill with greasy, yet surprisingly comforting, air. I'm home, I remind myself, and I'm safe here. These are my people.
My eyes scan the diner for the hundredth time this morning. Of course, I find nothing out of place. Every face is a face I've seen before, and every single one of those faces has shown me nothing but kindness over the past two years.
Breathe.
"Willow? Are you okay?" Marna asks from her booth. Her Bible is spread out along with an assortment of highlighters, pens, and note paper.
"Oh, uh, yeah."
Her brows furrow in concern. "You seem out of it, honey."
"Just have a lot on my mind," I lie. Honestly, there's nothing I can tell her. Technically, nothing is wrong-everything is fine...it's just this feeling I have, and how to describe a feeling that hasn't happened or may never happen? You can't. I've heard what happens to people who talk about such things in the human world, and I quite like being in my apartment and being allowed to wander the world independently rather than be stuck in a padded room.
