Page 104 of What The Hex (The Family Spells)
I took Caine’s phone into the other room and paused, considering my options. While our visit to Caine’s family wouldn’t be fun, it was considerably less dangerous than dealing with Argent’s or Spectre’s. I tapped a finger against my lips, delaying the inevitable.
Raeanne wasn’t a bad person. Actually, she was absurdly nice. On the flip side, she was judgmental as fuck, and made me sweat so badly I had to wear sweet-smelling armpit charms instead of deodorant to keep things fresh. The woman was the quintessential matriarch of her family, an excellent chef, a skilled housekeeper, and the queen of making everyone else feel like shit for not being at her level.
In short, Caine’s mother was like a PTA mom from Zavier’s school on speed.
I looked over to see Caine watching me from the doorway, half in and half out of the gold curtain that hung there. Usually, it was purple, but I’d switched it out to match our winter holiday theme.
“You need some emotional support, sugar?” he drawled, sauntering in to stand beside the arm of the couch. He gave me a wolfy grin that had my hormones all aflutter. I had more Santa Hats in the back in case … No. No, I was trying to distract myself with sex.
Who wouldn’t rather bang one out in the storage room than call their MIL?
“Well, your family’s far less likely to give us trouble than Kingdom Noir or … the Seelie Court.” My mouth twitched at the very idea of returning to Faerie; I wasn’t even sure it was possible without my immediate and painful death following along in its wake. “If I can’t get up the courage to talk to Raeanne, how am I supposed to deal with Spectre’s grandmother? Argent’s mom?”
Caine sat down on the arm of the couch and reached out to brush some hair back from my forehead.
“Look at you, my witchy wife. You can do witch politics, demon politics, werewolf politics, vampire politics, faerie politics. Is there anything you can’t do?”
“I can’t bake for shit,” I said, thinking of last year’s bake sale at the kids’ daycare. I’d insisted on making candy cane cookies that somehow looked like misshapen dicks. Luckily, Argent had baked extra cookies on the sly for me to take. That PTA bitch Mercy and her philandering husband had not been thrilled to see that my table had the longest line.
This year, I was going to skip the event entirely. Thank fuck.
I would send a hefty donation to the school instead and be done with it.
“Bake? Who gives a fuck about baking. That’s what Argent is for.” Caine leaned down to press a smoldering kiss to my lips, one that had my toes curling inside my witchy boots and my skin pebbling with goose bumps. “If you want me to call my mother, I—”
“I’ll do it,” I said hastily as he took a seat on the coffee table in front of me. It would annoy Raeanne that I was making the call. She didn’t care for werewolf etiquette whatsoever. I hit dial on her number and waited.
“Caine,” she greeted, somewhat cheerily. Raeanne didn’t dislike her son. In fact, she liked him enough to realize that he was better off with me than he was with his pack. But she was still a self-hating werewolf, to some extent.
“Raeanne,” I replied, just as cheerily. She paused for a minute, but she wasn’t entirely unfriendly. That was the thing with Caine’s family. They weren’t bad people; they just weren’t our people. “I’m sure you’ve heard from Abel—”
“I’ve heard,” she replied, and then as if she realized that might sound rude, she added, “I’d love it if you came down for Christmas day, but I’ll take what I can get. Are you bringing my grandbabies?”
We were, despite my reservations.
One nice thing about Caine’s family was their easy willingness to accept all four of my children as members of their own family. Partially it was because they disliked their own wolf blood and so they denied some very basic facts of biology, but at least the end result was a good one.
“We are,” I agreed, looking into Caine’s amber eyes and thinking about the day we’d first met. “Just for a few nights. Caine … misses you.” I added that last part on to soften Raeanne up a bit. Maybe it was true. Maybe it wasn’t. Hard to tell with the way Caine crossed his muscular arms over his blue and white flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
I never thought I’d like a guy with shaggy blond hair who wore flannel and holey jeans and oftentimes, no shoes. Spectre was more my typical type. Tattooed, dark haired, alternative. Hex, too, really, minus the manwhore part.
But Caine was … he was perfect.
“We miss him, too, more than I could ever say in words.” Raeanne paused here, and I could imagine her nodding, her youthful face twisted in thoughtful contemplation. Werewolves also had extended lifespans and reduced aging over humans. Pretty sure Raeanne was in her mid-sixties, but she looked to be about forty. “We’ll get the spare room set up.”
