Wicked Soul (Ancient Blood #1)(74)

She was right about that, really. I didn't like the thought of depending on someone to take care of me, but I was pretty sure she wasn't talking about my independence.

“Oh, I absolutely disagree. If she wasn’t so modest, her art could easily decorate some of Chicago’s finest galleries,” Warin said. “The life of an artist isn’t for everyone—it requires talent and spirit beyond what most of us possess. But I’m sure you know your daughter’s got both in excess.”

My cousin Melba, who’d wedged in at the edge of our small cluster to not miss a word, half-succeeded in choking off a giggle at that comment. When Warin raised his eyebrows in question, she studiously avoided looking at him by pouring herself another glass of wine.

"So, Warin,” Gary interrupted. "How did you meet our Olivia?"

“Our Olivia”? I had never met the man before today, but he apparently felt he was part of the family. Must be nice.

"I saw her through a window at a bar and knew I had to know her," Warin answered, not missing a beat.

Oh, suave. Even though I knew it was a lie, my cheeks still heated up.

My mum giggled, managing that perfect balance between surprised amusement and mild derision she’d perfected to an artform. “Oh, isn’t that sweet? It’s such a rare man who can appreciate a more, ah, difficult body type. I know it’s been hard for Liv to find boyfriends with her build and that unfortunate jawline. A leftover from her father, I’m afraid. How wonderful you could look past it so easily.”

I clenched Warin’s hand. Every time—she always had to humiliate me. I knew this, expected it. So why did it still hurt so much?

“Difficult body type?” The barest hint of ice penetrated Warin’s voice, though his tone was nothing but polite disbelief. “There’s nothing difficult or unfortunate about Liv’s appearance, and certainly nothing I need to look past. She’s a beautiful woman.”

"So, Mom, how did you and Gary meet?" I quickly intervened. I had heard the story multiple times, but making my mother talk about herself was always a good diversion.

It worked flawlessly. For the next half hour, until dinner was served, my mother talked about their relationship in minute detail, but at least it changed the focus from me. I leaned against Warin for the duration, thankful for his support. He kept his hand in mine the whole time, and for that, I was grateful. It was the first time I’d had to face my family without feeling alone.

Dinner passed in a blur of fly fishing talk from Uncle Rogan, a million and one questions about the Ferrari we’d arrived in, discussion of Kathy and Brad’s upcoming nuptials, and the occasional insult to my lack of education and career. But during the entire meal, Warin was there, his hand on my knee under the table, lending me his strength. His presence steeled me enough that, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I didn’t feel like crying at every dig that came my way.

And when my mother asked me to clear the table after dessert, I even found the strength to say, “Sorry, I was gonna show Warin the garden. We’ll be in in a bit.”

“It’s dark,” my mother protested from her seat. “And Edna could really use the help.”

“You should help her, then,” I said, a thin smile in place as I grabbed Warin’s hand and pulled him toward the door.

It was such a small thing, telling my mother no… but my heart was hammering in my chest as I led Warin across the lawn to the old willow tree I’d always escaped to during family gatherings as a kid.

The swing still hung from one of its sturdy branches, and I patted the thick trunk affectionately. It was so blessedly quiet out here.

“Sit—I’ll push you,” I said to my silent companion as I nodded at the swing.

He shot me a hesitant glance, but did as I asked.

When I pushed him, the stiffness of his posture made it obvious he’d never been on a swing before.

“Just relax,” I said. “And lift your feet, or I’m not moving you anywhere. Vamp strength and all.”

Warin obeyed again, and made a small noise of surprise when I pushed him and he rocked slowly on the swing.

“Fun?” I asked.

“Interesting,” he said as he looked up in the willow’s branches.

“I used to come here as a kid. It’s so peaceful,” I said as I pushed against his wool-clad back again.

“I don’t understand your family,” he said, after a moment’s silence. “They treat you so… poorly.” The touch of anger in his voice warmed me.

“I’m not like them,” I said softly. “Not everyone sees ‘weird human’ as a good trait. I’ve always been different—I even look different, thanks to my dad’s apparently overpowering genetics.”

“That doesn’t explain the vehemence I sense in these people,” he said. “Human society has been built around the very concept of family—of caring for your blood. And uniqueness… is celebrated. Or it should be.”

The pain I always felt when I thought too much about my upbringing flared in my gut, tightening my throat. This time, when Warin swung back, I didn’t push him.

The air swooshed between us, and then he was by my side, his hand resting on my shoulder. “Liv, what did these people do to you?” His voice was very quiet, but it had an unmistakable core of steel.