Faithfully Yours (Book 2, Dominantly Yours Series)

Two

"The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain.

It's the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared."

― Lois Lowry

The next morning, Claire woke in a somber mood. It happened to her sometimes. She'd learned to live with this inner quiet. Usually, it came only after she'd cried her heart out and finally ran the entire system dry. Days like today happened far and few between, but occasionally she woke with this deep inner sadness.

She had come to recognize this feeling and would let the hollowness take over every single time. It came along with the memories that flashed along her eyelids, all of them revolving around one sole image: Shane, on the ground of a dirty, old cabin, not moving.

She'd cried for her brother. She'd cried for all of her family: her mother and father—who she could not even remember—and her brother. Even her uncle, Justin, who'd tried to kill her last year. The same uncle who'd killed her brother Shane.

At one point, she'd started crying for herself.

That was what she hated the most. When self-pity came around, strength went out the window. With it came the excuses and with excuses came the unending grief and sorrow. Claire was determined to get past that.

So, while she forced herself to stop the pity, soothing the deep, inner ache was a whole other story.

Alone. The exact reason came from her thoughts. I feel alone.

But she wasn't alone. She had Charlie. She had Cole and Marie and Theresa and Gabriel and Marcus and even Wyatt. She had Nate. So why couldn't she escape that feeling?

She got up—it had to be almost noon with the way the sun heated the room—and took a quick shower, then made her way downstairs.

The kitchen looked as if yesterday had not even happened. Theresa had swept all the food and cleaning supplies back into their original positions. The white countertops were spotless save for a few small daisy plants near the sink and the window. The light beige table had been cleared as well.

What Claire loved most about the kitchen was the way it screamed "Theresa." There was a certain warm, motherly feel to the room that really came forward. With Theresa in the house—and now Marie—there was a perfect amount of feminine touch throughout the place. The kitchen was Theresa's stomping ground, and anyone who walked through the house could easily tell that with the bright hand towels and cooking utensils.

Speaking of Theresa. "Good morning, Claire."

"Good morning." Claire squinted against the bright light streaming in through the window.

Marie sat at the table with Theresa. Both of them nursed a cup of coffee and looked at papers in front of them.

"Just the girl-wolf we were discussing," Marie said.

Oh no. That couldn't possibly be good. "What were you both talking about?" she asked innocently.

Marie sniffed, holding her coffee between two palms near her lips. "Nothing."

Then it was definitely something. Warily, she made her way over to the coffeepot and grabbed a cup. Whatever it was, it'd probably be better to go in armed. Coffee would at least make her more awake and prepared.

"I'm telling you, Marie, she's going to pick mine," Theresa said.

Marie narrowed her eyes playfully. "I think I know Claire, Theresa."