The Gamma’s Second Chance (Crescent Lake #3)

5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

CASSANDRA

Silence is loud. Or so they say.

I always thought it was a joke.

Until right now. Until I had to sit with the king of surliness and endure endless, resounding silence as we eat dinner in separate rooms of his house. Him, in the living room on his couch while he finishes up some work on his laptop, and me, at the dining room table he claims he never uses.

Yesterday evening, after Maddie gave me a tour of the pack and introduced me to Beta Reid and Delta Sebastian, I had dinner with Alpha Wesley and Luna Haven in the house he built for her as a wedding gift. And by the time I returned to Nolan’s little white two-story farmhouse, he’d locked himself in his room for the night. So tonight is my first official night in his house with him as his unexpected roommate.

Housemate.

Whatever.

And the silence isn’t just deafening. It’s pressing. Pushing through it is like wading through knee-deep swamp water in the pouring rain while fully dressed with weights on your ankles and all your prized possessions in a small boat pulled behind you. It’s stifling, like a hot, humid summer day where the air is too heavy, and you can’t walk outside without feeling like you’ve stepped into a sauna. It reverberates through my body like the thumping of a much-too-loud subwoofer, ringing in my eardrums and pulsing through my veins.

I shudder for the umpteenth time as I turn the page in my book and sip my wine, shivering against an unbidden chill running through my body. I swear it’s caused by the unnatural silence. Even on our peaceful, isolated, magically protected island, it’s never this silent. There’s always the lull of the waves, the chirping of the birds, or the whispering of the breeze. There’s always someone humming, singing, or young acolytes giggling.

I could break the silence. I could go into the living room with him. Try to make small talk. Get to know him. But something tells me he would rebuke any gestures of kindness I make towards him. He’s perpetually grumpy. And while that may be off-putting for some, it just heightens my curiosity about him.

Why? Why is he like that? Why does he guard himself so? I want to find out, and I want to chip away at the armor and find all the ways to make him crack and show me the Nolan underneath.

“How do you like your coffee?”

I snap my head up from my book and peek around the daisies I placed in the middle of the dining room table this afternoon. Nolan stands in the archway, his words bringing an abrupt end to the silence we’ve existed in since returning to his house after Haven’s rehearsal.

Thank the Goddess.

“Pardon?”

He clears his throat. “I should have asked you this morning. I’m sorry. I was being a—”

“An asshole?”

“A dickhead,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck as he plops down in the chair across from me and slides the vase of daisies to the side to see me better. “So, I was wondering what you liked? Haven and I usually stop by Brewed Awakenings on our way to her rehearsals as part of our routine. I’ll make sure I save your order on my phone so it gets sent to them with ours.”

“Thanks,” I say, closing my book. “I like my coffee with a little sugar and a splash of cream.”

He nods and crosses his arms, leaning back in the chair, his body still holding the tension that’s been there since this morning, since I asked him about the ring on the table. His focus is on the vase of daisies, but mine is on the spot on the table where that ring sat.

I wonder what he did with it. I wonder why it struck such a nerve in him.

I wonder if he’s thinking about it, too. If he’s thinking about her.

Does he love her?

Nolan’s head pivots from the daisies on the table to the daisies on the counter and then back to me. His brow furrows more with each turn of his head until that scowl is directed at me. And even though he’s leaning back in his chair, even though he gives off the semblance of relaxation, his muscles are taut with tension and irritation.

“We should probably come up with some ground rules. Or agreements.”

I nod and lean forward, placing my elbows on the table. “That would probably be wise.”

Silence again. That same serious look on his face and in his eyes. That same tension locking his muscles up tight. His jaw ticks and his throat bobs and he massages the back of his neck again, tearing his eyes away from me and placing them back on the daisies.

“Um…” His cheeks puff out, and he blows air through his lips. “I don’t know how to do this, actually. I’m an only child, and I’ve never had a roommate or lived with someone else aside from…”

He trails off and rubs his buzzed hair, his eyes going distant and his lips pulling into his mouth. And again, I think of that ring from this morning.

Did she leave him? Does he miss her?

“I know what it’s like to be an only child too,” I say, pushing all those way too personal questions out of my mind. “Maybe we can just start simple? And add more rules as we think of them?”

“Simple how?”

“Like… don’t be an asshole?”

He exhales through his nose, a laugh that’s not quite a laugh, and he turns his head to me again. “Dickhead,” he corrects me. “Don’t be a dickhead.”

I smile and I swear he almost does, too. “Okay. So, agreement number one: don’t be a dickhead.”

“We should write this down,” he says, sitting up straighter and glancing around his kitchen, drumming the table with his hands.

He bolts from his chair and grabs a permanent marker next to a grocery list on the counter, then he clicks his tongue as he spins in place, searching for something. “Do you have a piece of paper?”

“No.”

His eyes land on my book. They flick up to mine and I shake my head. “Don’t you dare.” My voice is low, and I release a small growl, my lycan rising to her full height in my mind, now on alert.

He reconsiders for maybe half a second, then he lunges forward and grabs my book off the table before I can snatch it away to safety. “Nolan!” I shriek, jumping up and rushing over to him. “Stop!”

He sidesteps me and turns, lifting the book as high as he can on the dining room wall. He opens it to the title page, pen poised over the paper, and I jump, clawing at his arm to get him to stop. But he’s a massive wall of grumpy, unmoving muscle, and I’m a gnat crashing into the stones, body smashed upon impact.

And none of it matters. I watch as on the cream paper underneath the title and the author’s name, he writes, “Agreement #1: don’t be a dickhead.”

“That’s Haven’s book,” I say, taking it back from him after he closes it again.

The color drains from his face. Ice-cold terror runs through his body. His jaw goes slack, and his heart skips a beat as he glances at the now-defaced book in my hand and then back at me, his horror with himself rising. “Shit, is it really?”

It’s a low blow. But even in the short time I’ve known him, I’ve seen how important his luna is to him, not just as his alpha’s mate and a leader of his pack, but as a friend and a member of his family. He treats her with the utmost respect and puts her before himself.

My lips curl into a smile, and I laugh, leaning back against the wall, tilting my head up, and squeezing my eyes shut. “No, but you should see your face right now.”

His brows are raised, and his arms are crossed when I lower my head again. He leans in closer, one hand bracing himself against the wall as he towers over me, encroaching on my personal space with nowhere for me to escape to with the wall pressed against my back.

“Yeah, I didn’t think Haven would be the type to read,”—he glances down at the book cover and then his eyes flick back to me—“‘Seducing the Mafia King.’” My face heats and I press my lips together. “What’s it even about?”

I swallow and lick my lips, hugging the book to my chest with one hand, pressing the other against the wall for balance, and lifting my chin. I won’t be intimidated by him and his imposing presence and his grumpy attitude. And I won’t be ashamed of what I enjoy reading. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

“Pure smut?”

I gape at him, and it’s his turn to laugh, the first time I’ve truly heard the sound from him. Or a genuine one, at least. It’s a deep, rich, hearty sound that vibrates my bones and echoes in my ears. The laugh hums through my veins, like the smooth, resonant notes on a cello, ensnaring the attention of my lycan. Her ears flick forward, and she stares at him through my eyes, assessing him.

It’s a beautiful sound, but it disappears all too quickly as he inhales sharply. His face shutters, and he pushes off the wall and spins away from me, heading out of the room. He takes his heat with him, leaving me with another chill running through my body, this one caused by the growing distance and his guarded, storm cloud aura he’s snapped back into place. He fortifies it with each step, with each inch of space he puts between us.

“I’ll see you in the morning for Haven’s rehearsal,” he says as he reaches the archway, where he pauses before he glances at me over his shoulder, that surly, almost cold look back in his eyes, the glimpse he gave me of the real Nolan nowhere to be found. “And Cassandra?”

My fingers scrape against the beige wall, and I clutch my book tighter to my chest at the sound of his throaty voice saying my name. Even with the coldness in his eyes, there is a flicker of heat behind his words, and my breath hitches in my chest. “Yes?”

His head swivels until his line of sight ends on the flowers on the table. They stay there, unmoving. His hand grips the archway tighter with each of his inhales, his nostrils flaring once before he finally meets my eyes again.

“Don’t put any daisies in my room.”

Sleep came easily. Not surprising. I’d forced myself to stay awake my first night here, trying to adjust my inner clock to the time zone. By the time I collapsed into the bed in my guest room last night, my eyes closed on their own, and I’m pretty sure I fell asleep the second my head hit the pillow.

I must have been more tired than I thought because I slept later than I meant to. When I woke up, the sunlight was already streaming in through the not-quite-closed curtain. I sped through my routine to get ready, throwing on the first dress I could find in my suitcase—a knee-length purple one—and then came out here to the kitchen to grab breakfast.

A quick glance at the clock tells me I don’t have time to cook something from scratch, so I settle for fresh fruit with honey and a small container of yogurt. I would eat the leftovers of my spinach pie from yesterday morning, but it mysteriously disappeared from the fridge, the dish washed and resting in the drying rack next to the sink. I giggle to myself and shake my head as I stroll through the house, eating my yogurt and fruit.

Nolan’s home is clean and organized and very… bland. Beige. Beige and brown. Beige walls, brown furniture. Beige blankets and pillows in the living room. And—

“Fuck!” I grab my thigh, just above my knee, glaring down at the brown, square end table next to his couch. The sharp corner winks at me, teasing me, jutting out into the pathway like the most dangerous obstacle in the world.

I wince and skirt around it, frowning at it the entire journey into the room. I forgot it was there, even after I bumped into it twice when I brought the daisies in to put on the piano yesterday morning.

Absently, I rub at the spot where another bruise forms on top of the almost-healed one from yesterday as I make my way over to the piano. The daisies smile at me, and I lean in, cupping one with my hand and brushing my nose against it, inhaling its light scent. My eyes close and I sigh, a faint smile painting my lips.

There’s something so calming about daisies. All flowers, really, but especially daisies. They brighten a room and illuminate the darkest, most shadowed corners of my soul. They breathe life into everything, bringing peace and a forgiveness that mends the broken pieces.

I back away from the piano and the flowers, taking another bite of my yogurt, the metal spoon dinging against the ceramic tan and white bowl.

An acoustic guitar sits on a stand in the corner behind the piano. Sheet music and blank staff paper are scattered across the piano, handwritten notes in the margins and above the staves, confirming my suspicions that Nolan does in fact play the piano. And I guess the guitar too.

The blank staff music gives me an idea, and I dart from the room, once again bumping into that table.

“Damn it,” I say, limping for a few steps on my way back to the kitchen, my nostrils flaring.

Stupid table. Why does he have it in that spot? I can’t possibly be the only one who runs into it.

I wash my bowl and spoon in record time, then grab the gold glitter gel pen Luna Haven gave me with my other “personal assistant” supplies yesterday and head back into the living room.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I slam into that table yet again, too caught up in my mind to make sure I avoided it.

I kick at it and put my hands on my hips, staring down at it and licking my lips in thought. The couch and the loveseat sit at a right angle to each other, with nothing in the rectangular space between them. I gnaw on my lip and glance between that spot and the table. “Fuck it.”

I lift the table with a growl, moving it to its new home in between the two sofas, where it will no longer sneak up on me when I’m least expecting it.

Or anyone else.

Satisfied with my rearranging of the furniture, I head back over to the piano and grab a piece of the staff paper, uncapping my pen. My hand flies over the paper, a laugh threatening to spill from my mouth as I jot down the words.

“Agreement number one: don’t be a dickhead,” I murmur as I write. “Agreement number two: no daisies in Nolan’s room.”

He probably won’t find it funny. But I do.

I replace the cap with a smile, then cross my arms and lean against the piano, staring out the window next to it. The lake isn’t visible from here, but the mountains and the trees are, stretching beyond the borders of their pack and into the distance, disappearing into the horizon. It’s endless, as endless as the silence between Nolan and me last night, and I feel exposed and insignificant in the shadow of those towering mountains and innumerable trees.

My home for the foreseeable future. However long that ends up being.

My fingers itch as my eyes move from the window to the keys of the instrument I lean on. They’re clean and sparkling. They glitter in the sun streaming in, teasing me and taunting me, goading me to let my fingers dance across their surface.

I press my palms against the shiny black piano, then walk around it to the bench, my fingers trailing around the edge of it until I sit in front of the keys. I play a quick scale, checking the tuning, and I sigh and close my eyes at the perfect pitch of the instrument.

My fingers dabble with the keys, both hands moving in tandem, plucking out random drips and snippets of various themes while I loosen my neck. Assorted pieces of music pop into my mind, but I shove each of them away, searching for the one that feels right, not settling on a melody until I find it.

It doesn’t take long. Un Sospiro flows from my brain, down my arms, and out my fingertips, and before I know it, I’m lost in the notes, in the emotions of the piece, sighing and breathing along with the arpeggios, my hands crossing and uncrossing as the music calls for it. I pour everything into the piece, leaning into it and moving with the music. The notes float around the room, spiraling and filling it, skipping across every surface like little drops of water and burrowing into every nook and cranny, leaving nothing untouched by their magical sounds.

I play the final chord, and my fingers linger on the keys before I let them fall to my lap, and my eyes open and meet Nolan’s. Their unique, light hazel color is almost completely hidden from view, covered by his wide, dark pupils. That ever-present tension is evident in his body, in the pulsing veins of his bulging biceps and forearms, and the tick in his jaw. He stands in the entry, staring at me, arms crossed over his white T-shirt.

I jump from the bench and back away from the piano, wiping my palms on my dress, keeping eye contact with him the entire time. How long has he been there? Is he mad?

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I should have asked you first.”

He swallows, and his eyes dart to the piano and then back to me. But he doesn’t acknowledge my apology or assuage my guilt.

“Haven’s waiting for us,” he says after several seconds pass, his voice as tight as the sleeves around his arms.

“Right.”

I leave the room, pausing on the threshold, my shoulder almost brushing his upper arm. His eyes are back on the piano, his focus inward and introspective, unfazed by how close I stand to him. His fingers dig into his skin, and my fingers twitch at my side. I have the urge to reach for him, to take his hand in mine and soothe the tension away.

But I don’t. Instead, I walk away, leaving him alone to stare at the piano.