A long pause. Then she said coldly, “Angela, I love you, but you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve let yourself ignore their history because you care for Connor, and as far as I can tell, he does seem like a nice enough young man. It’s unfortunate he was born into that family. But all his good qualities have blinded you to who and what they are.”
I realized then it wouldn’t matter what I said. She’d long ago formed her opinion of the Wilcox clan, built on stories of their iniquities, stories that had been passed down from generation to generation. Talk about brainwashing. “Whatever. I’m not the one who’s blind here. Anyway, I think we’re just fine where we are. None of the attacks have taken place anywhere near our apartment, and I’m careful. I’ve stopped going out alone. So I’ll be okay until the authorities get it handled.”
“Angela — ”
“It was nice talking to you, Rachel.” I hung up without waiting for a reply. It was rude, but I didn’t want to hear any more of her diatribes about the Wilcoxes.
But her words had gotten me thinking again, thoughts going down pathways I’d tried to avoid. I’d asked Connor a few days earlier if he’d heard anything from Damon, and he’d said, his tone almost abrupt, that no, he hadn’t, but it wasn’t a big deal because they often went as much as a week at a time without talking if there wasn’t anything that Damon deemed worthy enough of conversation. What Connor had left unsaid was that Damon probably didn’t have much use for him anymore, that the little brother who’d once worshipfully done pretty much anything Damon asked was gone, replaced by someone who’d found his own purpose in life, and the sort of love the primus couldn’t begin to comprehend.
Maybe it really wasn’t a big deal. For all I knew, Jessica was keeping him trapped in the house so they could work full-time at making their perfect little Wilcox heir. Ugh. There was a visual I really didn’t need.
So I went across the landing to the studio and let myself in. The air was thick with the scent of linseed oil and turpentine. Once the weather warmed up, Connor would be able to open the windows and let the fresh air carry those smells away, but it was still far too cold for that.
His back was to me as he worked away on a large canvas, part of a triptych showing a panoramic canyon scene. There were at least ten reference photos clipped to the easel, all of which showed a blazing blue sky above rock formations so grand they had to be from the canyon of the same name. The photos must have been taken the summer before, and I suddenly ached for the return of warmer weather, of sandals and hot winds scented with dry grass, of a time that didn’t feel weighted down by perpetual winter. Well, the equinox was only three days off now. It would still be a long time before truly comfortable temperatures returned to Flagstaff, but they were on their way.
I was going to wait until Connor hit a stopping point before I said anything, but one of the floorboards creaked under my feet, and he turned at once. The slightest frown creased his forehead before he smoothed it away, then set down his paintbrush and came toward me.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
It was a valid question; generally I left him alone until he was done painting and was ready to come back over to the apartment. I didn’t like to disturb him when he worked, knowing how important it was for him to finally give free rein to his talents, to finally have the chance to be known for the gifted artist he truly was.
“Maybe. Yes. No.”
He grinned, green eyes dancing. “I don’t think it can be all three at once, sweetheart.”
My insides wanted to melt at his casual use of the endearment, but I knew if I didn’t broach the subject soon, I’d never have the nerve. Actually, I wasn’t sure if I had the guts to say it now, not with those green eyes I loved so much watching me, open and with no idea of what I was about to ask.
“Connor, I — ” Damn it, I should be tougher than this. I was the McAllister prima. In name only, I thought bitterly, and tried to push the notion aside. That was yet another situation which would have to be resolved in the near future. This problem — possible problem, I reminded myself — with Damon had to be addressed first. Was I willing to let more innocent girls die just because I was too cowardly to have this conversation with Connor?
He came to me then, pulling me against him and holding me close. One hand stroked my hair, and I caught a faint drift of the sage and chamomile soap he used to clean up when he was done painting for the day. “What is it? You know you can tell me anything.”
Could I, really? I knew he loved me, and I loved him, but even with that, even with the consort bond, there was so much we didn’t know about one another. And Damon had been the only person close to him for so many years. Connor truly wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for his brother’s intervention, and for all my personal dislike of the primus, I couldn’t ignore how important that one fact was, how the saving of a life created an enormously strong bond as well, even beyond the one they already shared as brothers.