Amber

“dead men tell no tales’ thing is a total load of crap, by the way. Ghosts never shut the hell up, and it’s hard to believe half the shit they say.”
― Kristy Cunning, Gypsy Blood

“Violet’s not getting out of our sight,” Arion adds.

There’s a moment of just staring…like everyone is trying to silently argue.

“No one naked in my car,” Mom states when I just stand in my spot, waiting on them to hurry through the push and pull.

You really can tell how thick the air is when too many alphas are in the room at one time, but weirdly it never feels this way when it’s just the four of them. Unless punches are thrown. Then it gets a little heavier than normal.

Arion pulls on his clothes, and threads whir in the air as I quickly fashion Emit a lopsided toga that lands on his body. Everyone’s gaze swings to him like it’s weird for him and normal for me to be in a toga.

Awesome.

Damien muffles a sound, Emit arches an eyebrow at me, and Arion remains rigid, staying close to me but never touching me.

All of us squeezing into a car together while most of them hate each other…should be fun.

The storm finally stops before we board the elevator, and it’s one of those super awkward elevator moments where no one is looking at anyone or saying anything, and everyone is trying to stay in-the-moment serious.

We stop on the floor just under us, after the longest thirty-five seconds ever.

The doors open, and two men glance around at Emit and I in our matching togas, even though his is the fitted sheet and riding up in some funny places.

He looks like a caveman who accidentally bleached and shrank his wardrobe.

I palm my face, embarrassed for him.

The next couple of floors are super awkward with the addition of the two new, notably uncomfortable men.

Worst seventy-nine seconds ever. Math doesn’t add up? Yeah. I’m upset about those extra nine seconds as well.

Poor Emit has to duck out of the unusually small elevator, and the bottom of his ass cheek plays peek-a-boo on one side.

Damien finally snorts, and even Mom struggles to keep a straight face. That really pisses her off.

“You’re seeing him on an off day,” I tell the two guys, who stare at my red boots for a second.

I feel the need to defend Emit a little, especially since I now know he overheard all that gibberish Tiara was saying…

I can’t remember all I said, and it’s worrying me now that my mind has gone off on this stupid tangent.

I trip over the hem of my toga, and Arion snags me before I hit the floor, righting me and showing his hands to my mother with a quick grin.

“Can’t just let her fall,” he says unapologetically.

“You’re going to have to learn to deal with that,” she bites out.

She has a very good point. I don’t trip very often, but things and people usually knock me around a good bit of my life.

The two guys look like they want to run, so I hurry to fix this.

“Really, it’s a long story, but I swear Emit—the tallest one in the fitted-sheet-toga—generally wears pants…er…I guess you guys call them trousers over here. Anyway, we had some plane problems,” I carry on, and then realize I have to account for the fact we’re both missing clothing. “Then there was a fire that miraculously only burned our clothes, because Emit put all my flames out by smothering me with his body,” I state like that’s exactly what happened.

Why do they look so scared? I’m not telling a scary lie.

At this point, I’ve just made it worse, and fortunately Damien takes mercy, clamping his hand over my mouth as he starts steering me toward the door before I can make it…whatever comes after worse but before the worst.

“Thank you,” sounds more like “Mmdi ooooo,” against his hand, but he gets the gist, as he grins.

Mom makes a frustrated sound.

“Another minute, and she’d be bragging about his penis size in quest to save his dignity. Did you really want to hear that?” Damien asks her, forcing me to groan against his hand.”
― Kristy Cunning, Gypsy Moon

“As much as I would love losing myself in you, especially after the rough few days, I’m afraid I have to escort some wolves to the running lands. Also, there’s a stamp on your forehead that spells ‘LOSER,’ and I’m finding it terribly distracting during this really intense moment.”
― Kristy Cunning, Gypsy Truths

“I can’t get those orange cookies out of my head. I want to go beg her for more, but I’m terrified of what’s going to come out of my mouth while I’m putting those in it,”
― Kristy Cunning, Gypsy Blood