Page 73 of Fate, Interrupted

But from the age of twelve until I went to college at seventeen, Aunt Claire was my guardian after our mother’s death. I had five grueling, brutal years with Aunt Claire, while Penny only had three. And while leaving me with Claire, according to Penny, was one of the hardest things she’d ever done, she hot-footed it out of that house as fast as she could, rushing into a first marriage that lasted two months. Even after that, Penny was always Claire’s favorite.

And now I see her face has found its conclusion, her eyes narrowing and her jaw going rigid. She is ready to make her position clear.

“I didn’t think it would be this obvious,” she says.

My chin lifts, a knee jerk reaction to any blanket statement Aunt Claire made about me. “What would be?”

“That you’ve decided to ignore every boundary that’s ever been set for you.”

Not even a greeting. Not even the pretense of one.

“That’s not what this is,” I say.

Her gaze moves to Silas again, briefly, precisely. “He’s a wolf.”

The word sits in the middle of the sidewalk between us. A verdict.

“Yes,” I say.

“And you’re walking down a public street with him.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“No,” she says. “It’s worse than that. It’s careless.”

The word hits harder than I want it to. Careless, like I haven’t thought about this, like I’m playing at something I don’t understand the weight of, like I’m seventeen, and she’s already decided what I’ve done wrong before I’ve explained myself. I feel the familiar tightening in my chest, the old defensive fury rising through it.

“You don’t get to decide that,” I say.

“I get to decide what affects this family.”

“My relationships don’t affect you.”

“It affects all of us when you make decisions like this in public.” Her eyes move around the street, pointed, making a point. “In front of people who know us.”

I feel it now. The attention. The subtle stilling of people nearby, catching tone rather than content, ambient curiosity working in a crowd. I hadn’t noticed it before.

Silas has.

I step forward, putting myself more fully between them. Not a conscious decision. My body just does it.

“This is my life,” I say.

“And you’re putting it in the hands of a man you don’t understand.”

“I understand him.”

“You understand what he is,” she says. “That’s not the same thing.”

“She understands more than you think,” says Silas.

His voice is low and even. Entirely without apology. Someone who has decided not to rise to the moment. Claire looks at him, and her expression moderates. She expected deflection, probably, or defensiveness or outrage. The absence of it has made her recalibrate.

“Then you know exactly what you’re doing,” she says.

“Yes,” he says.

Claire’s attention comes back to me, and it sharpens. She’s been circling something since she stopped us. I can feel it in the conversation, as if she has a destination in mind and has been choosing her route carefully.