From Ashes Read online

  Signed. Sealed. Delivered.

  “So natural triplets, huh?” she asked, tugging him out of his own thoughts. “A couple hundred years ago, that must have been a risky pregnancy.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he grumbled. “Only about a million times.” He flashed her a quick grin when she laughed, showing her he was kidding. Slightly. “But the healers helped my mother through the entire, apparently arduous, nine months.”

  Her laugh was music to his soul, lightening him until he was almost buoyant with happiness.

  “Is your dad still . . . ?”

  He grimaced, but the memories couldn’t completely darken his mood. “No. The Dalshie killed my father in their attacks during WWII.”

  “I’m sorry.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “I didn’t know.”

  He shrugged. “It was a long time ago, and I’ve been able to come to terms.”

  “But your wife, your son, your father.” Her voice was grim. “You have so much cause to hate them.” The volume dropped so that it was almost inaudible. “You should hate me for loving—”

  He stopped and wrapped her in his arms. “Trust me when I say that I could never hate you, Sunshine.”

  “Er-hem.”

  His gaze flew up, saw his mother standing in the doorway to her quarters. Rolling his eyes, he released Gabby, snagged her hand, and led her toward his mother.

  He would bide his time, would woo her, would show her that he loved her.

  And when she finally trusted him with every bit of her soul, he would bond with her, take that final step to permanently claim her as his.

  Because she was his, as much as he would be forever hers.

  Twenty-Seven

  Gabby

  She stood dumbstruck in the hall, staring at the woman Mason had introduced as his mother in utter disbelief.

  “It’s true, I’m afraid,” Matilda said, her lips twitching. “I somehow carried those three boys to term.”

  Her smile was kind, and there was amusement in her hazel eyes, in the single most striking feature that connected her with her sons. Add in similar hair color—both brown but not the same shade—and perhaps, there was something in their bone structure that linked them, but . . . the biggest difference was in size.

  It wasn’t that she had expected Mason’s mother to be six feet tall like her sons, but she hadn’t expected the petite woman—several inches shorter than Gabby’s own five feet practically nothing—to be so small.

  Triplets?

  Matilda laughed. “Yup,” she said. “All three of them.” A beat. “At the same time.”

  Gabby felt her face flush. Was Mason’s mother telepathic?

  “No,” Matilda said. “I’m not telepathic and can’t read emotions. I’ve just had these questions multiple times over the last two centuries, sweetie.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed. “It’s frankly”—she shook her head, laughed—“impressive.”

  “I like you already,” Matilda said, leaning in for a quick hug.

  Gabby froze, instincts she’d forgotten she possessed after being so long in Mason’s presence, rearing their ugly heads. It took her a moment to get used to the strange set of arms, to force the automatic reaction away, and hug Matilda back.

  Mason’s mother released her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m a hugger.” An awkward pause punctuated the air. “Sometimes I forget that not everyone is.”

  “It’s not that,” she said, surprising herself. “I didn’t mind it.” A shrug, discomfort making the movement jerky. “I’m . . .” Her gaze dropped to the floor, her voice dropping alongside it. “I’m just not used to it.”

  It was the simplest truth without exposing her sordid past to Mason’s mother.

  Though it was probably pointless, she realized when she managed to look up again and saw Matilda staring at her with a considering expression on her face. One that said she’d seen right through Gabby’s glossing over of the details.

  “Mom,” Mason said, gently touching Gabby’s arm and carefully inserting himself between the two women. “I’m hungry.”

  Matilda laughed. “Oh, my favorite oldest triplet, you always are. Come on in, dinner’s ready.” She stepped back from the door and waved them in. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll just set the table then holler when it’s ready.”

  Mason led her down the hall, and she saw that Matilda’s quarters were much larger than Gabby’s. She had an actual entryway, decorated with an elegant circular table and a gilded mirror, and from there another short hallway opened up into a large living space.

  This was no studio apartment.

  The room was soft, airy, and filled with equally delicate furniture—a couch and loveseat, tables, even a row of bookcases adorned one wall. A small pass-through afforded her a view of Matilda in the kitchen and opposite them was a small, well-appointed dining room.

  While Gabby was struck by the elegance of her surroundings, Mason was unfazed. He pulled her toward the couch and plunked down, tucking her right against his side.

  “This is gorgeous,” she murmured.

  Mason just shrugged. “My mom is talented.”

  “Uh. Yeah.” Everything in the space was at once comfortable and suave, stunning and yet not stuffy, the perfect mix of hotel chic and lived-in.

  Talented didn’t begin to cover the breadth of Matilda’s abilities.

  She opened her mouth to ask him what it had been like to grow up in such a place, but his groan of displeasure stifled her words. He shifted away from her, slid his hand behind a pillow.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He winced. “Nothing.”

  But there was something about the quick response, the way he held himself, the angle of his body as he shielded—

  After taking a quick mental stock, gauging where his mind was at, making sure the blip of emotion she felt in his consciousness wasn’t serious, she grinned. Nope, definitely not serious. Rather, he was embarrassed.

  “What are you hiding?” she asked, trying to reach around him.

  “Nothing.”

  Another rapid reply and a giggle passed through her lips because the expression on his face—little boy who’d gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar—was so unlike him.

  “Let me see.” She reached forward.

  He moved back. “There’s nothing to see here.”

  “I’d call B.S. on that,” she said, attempting to wriggle past him.

  His arms closed around her and he hauled her into his lap.

  “Mason!” she gasped, glancing over her shoulder, half expecting Matilda to walk in and find Gabby crawling all over her son. Squirming, she attempted to extract herself, but his arms may as well have been steel for all the effect she had on them. “Let me go!”

  He leaned down, nipped her ear. “Keep moving like that and I’m not going to be able to stand up.”

  “Wh-what?” she asked, then shifted again and stifled a groan, biting her lip in desire, in laughter as she comprehended—or rather, felt what he meant. He was hard, his arms not the only body part that resembled steel.

  “Do you feel what you do to me?” His question was rasped, ratcheting her arousal up to a seriously-inappropriate-for-visiting-his-mother level.

  She needed to calm things down, so instead of admitting that his hard cock between her thighs made her ache for him, she kept her tone light. “This is starting to become a problem for you,” she murmured, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

  But when he tried to deepen the contact, she tickled his side and grabbed for the object he’d been attempting to hide.

  As soon as her fingers grasped the bound book, she scrambled off his lap and into the armchair on the opposite side of the coffee table.

  He growled, started to follow, when Matilda strode back into the room. “The roast just needs another few—Oh good! You found it.”

  Reeling, her gaze jumping from Mason’s scorching expression to Matilda’s placid kindness, Ga
bby fumbled with the book. “Um . . . yes?”

  “This is my favorite part.” Matilda clapped her hands together gleefully. “The point where I get to embarrass my kids. Photos are traditional, are they not?”

  Gabby frowned. “But they didn’t have photos when Mason was a baby.”

  “No,” Matilda said. “But they did have these.”

  She flipped the cover open, and Gabby felt her jaw drop open.

  The images inside were similar to the murals that lined the hallway, though miniature and instead of landscapes they were of Mason and his brothers. As babies, as toddlers, and older—on horses, in a tree, in fancy old-fashioned suit, even holding a rifle.

  Good lord, even as a gangly teenager he had still been gorgeous.

  Of course he’d skip the awkward stage.

  As her fingers began to turn the page, Mason’s hand halted her. She looked up, surprised she hadn’t sensed him come over. “That’s far enough,” he said, sitting on the arm of her chair.

  “What—?” she started to ask then caught the trail of his thoughts.

  The next pages were of him and Victoria and Jacob.

  She paused as she considered her feelings. She wasn’t jealous of Victoria, more curious. But did that curiosity mean she should bring up the painful parts of Mason’s past?

  No.

  Gently closing the book, she set it aside and turned to him, cupping his cheek. “When you’re ready to show me, I would like to see them,” she murmured.

  “Sunshine,” he whispered, his voice gruff, and she felt him brace. “You can look if you want.”

  “Some other time.” She quickly pressed her lips to his. “When it’s not quite so raw.”

  His breath caught, the pulse of emotion he sent down their connection warming her from the inside out, but before she could say anything further, a slight rustling sound drew her attention and she turned, surprised and a little uncomfortable that she’d so easily forgotten the presence of Mason’s mother.

  Matilda had the oddest expression on her face—amazement and concern, affection and approval.

  That affection, the approval.

  Her breath caught. So freely and easily given.

  Why had her own mother been incapable of providing it? Why had she been unable to love an innocent little girl? She knew she might never understand her mother’s motivations, but for the first time Gabby actually believed that she’d had no bearing on them whatsoever.

  Mason had said it wasn’t her fault.

  John, Dante, Dee, and Suz hadn’t treated her like a victim, exactly—probably because they didn’t have all of the details—but they had acknowledged that Gabby wasn’t to blame.

  And yet part of her had never truly believed any of them.

  Funny how the course of a person’s life could change with a simple look. That all of the pieces could realign in response to a fleeting glance.

  It wasn’t her fault.

  It. Wasn’t. Her. Fault.

  “May I use the bathroom?” she asked, surprised at how outwardly calm she sounded.

  Matilda’s face cleared. “Of course. It’s the second door on the right.”

  Rising, she nodded then walked down the hall. She felt rather than heard Mason stand to follow her.

  "I’m okay," she thought.

  He blinked at the sound of her mental voice then, "I’m not so sure.”

  Gabby blinked herself, hearing him across their connection. It surprised her how clear it sounded, and also how intimate it felt, as though his voice was flowing across her soul.

  Almost too intimate.

  Deep inside, how did he feel about her? Did she want to know?

  “You can look if you want," he thought. “I don’t have anything to hide from you, Sunshine.”

  She almost smiled at the placating tone of his mind. They might share a growing mental link, but it didn’t ensure clarity. He could feel her emotions, understand that something had rocked her to the core, and yet he had no clue that the emotions coursing through her—the ones making her heart pound, her hands tremble, her throat tight as hell—weren’t any fault of his.

  "I don’t need to look," she thought. "I just need a minute." With that, she walked to the bathroom, gently closed the door behind her, and leaned against it.

  Why had she spent so long blaming herself?

  It seemed ridiculous as she looked back on the events of her childhood. The memories weren’t pleasant—rather, they were mostly terrible. And somehow, she’d taken that upon herself, blamed herself for having affection to the woman who birthed who, who occasionally showed her kindness.

  And hating her, as well.

  Because the good times had made Gabby accept the bad.

  Why? Perhaps, she had a flaw in her character, something that made her vulnerable to mistreatment.

  Bullshit.

  Yes, that was all bullshit. She loved her father—that was easy to quantify—and she loved the good parts of her mother—that was the way forward. Resting her head back against the cool wood, she bent her knees and slid to the floor. She supposed the way she categorized her conflicted feelings didn’t really matter, so long as she stopped shouldering the blame for what had happened.

  Easier said than done. But progress wasn’t always a steady track and she—

  The knock on the door made her jump.

  It was Mason. She knew that before he even spoke.

  “Let me in, Sunshine.”

  “I’m fine,” she called. “Just . . . give me a minute.” She stood, crossed to the sink, and splashed some water on her face, thankful she hadn’t had time to fuss with makeup. She was still learning how to put it on, and in this instance, she was glad she could wash her face and didn’t have to deal with racoon eyes. And maybe it was the inane thoughts of makeup, or the noise of the running water, or perhaps it was simply the swirling emotions in her mind, but regardless, she didn’t realize that Mason had ignored her and entered the bathroom anyway until she was in his arms.

  “What—?” she asked, not having a chance to finish the question before his lips pressed against hers.

  It was a hard kiss, a firm meeting of their mouths, his grip on her waist no less resolved.

  “Tell me,” he demanded when he’d pulled back slightly, the puffs of his breath teasing her lips, his arms stiff bands around her.

  She shook her head, a weak attempt to clear her mind. “Tell you what?”

  Scowling, he gently touched the corner of one eye. “Tell me why you’ve been crying.”

  “I’m not!” She’d held back the tears.

  Mason made a sound of disapproval. “I can feel you, you know that, right? There’s no point in lying. And besides that, your nose is red, your eyes are watery, and your cheeks are flushed.”

  “I didn’t cry,” she muttered then at his disbelieving scoff added, “So maybe I came close, but it was out of happiness. I wasn’t upset.”

  “The turmoil I sensed in your mind wasn’t happiness.”

  “I didn’t say it was all happiness.“ She shoved at his arms, but he didn’t release her. “I just said I was happy.” Struggling in earnest now, frustrated that he could hold her when she wanted some distance to align her thoughts, she snapped, “Let me go.”

  He shook his head. “Spill.”

  “Why do you—?“ A grunt escaped as her elbow connected with his stomach. “Why do you get to keep all of your confidences and I have to give you every detail? There are things I’ve wanted to demand of you, but I haven’t because I respect that you deserve privacy to work things out in your mind. Why can’t you do that for me?”

  It was almost comical how quickly his arms dropped. And then how quickly they rose again to steady her when she stumbled from their sudden loss.

  “I don’t know.”

  The three words were soft and filled with such dismay that Gabby forgot she was frustrated and closed the distance between them this time.

  “No.” She sighed. “Don’t start shoulder
ing that blame.” She ran her fingers across his jaw, tried to get him to meet her eyes. “Let’s just stop and start over. I don’t expect you to give me everything—every thought and insight that flicks through your mind.” Another sigh as he continued to stare over her head. “We’re new at this. I’m okay with taking it slow. So long as you don’t go all alpha and try to get me to spill every detail, but you keep all the hurts and pain inside. I can’t be with someone who does that.” She touched his jaw. “We can’t work like that.”

  His shoulders rose and dropped on one long breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  Her heart pulse, but she kept her tone light. “Was that as painful to say as it sounded?”

  His chuckle was a little forced, but at least he looked at her. “Sorry I pushed.”

  “I want this to work,” she said, “so I’m not going to say it’s okay. Because it’s not, and I’m done with letting people hurt me. But . . . I know the bond is playing with our emotions, making us both a little crazy.” She smiled. “But we also need to have some privacy, right?”

  “Right.” He grimaced. “I just . . . I don’t want ignore something, pretend a problem doesn’t exist and then have it fester between us.”

  She nodded because he had a point. “How about I promise to tell you if it’s important?”

  “Who decides it’s important?”

  “I do.” She touched the frown that appeared. “And you have to trust that I won’t lie to you about it.”

  Hazel eyes on hers, holding for a long moment. Then a slight incline of his head. “Okay, Sunshine. I’m good with that.”

  “And you’ll do the same?”

  His hopeful demeanor dimmed slightly, and she felt his mind grow serious as he considered whether or not that was something he could do. After a moment, he nodded. “Yes.”

  “Okay then,” she said. “Is this the point where I should tell you that I’ve finally stopped blaming myself for my past?” Rising on tiptoe, she pressed a quick kiss to his mouth and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Is that important enough for you?”

  Leaving Mason appearing as though he’d been struck across the face with a two by four, she walked out of the bathroom and back toward the living space.