by Juniper Hart
“Your wife is a keeper,” Johnny commented, eyeing his brother-in-law’s partner with more interest than his own wife, Tristan, liked. Tristan glared at her husband but said nothing, her attention suddenly diverted by her daughter, who had suddenly discovered the cat.
“Addy!” Tristan barked, though not without shooting Johnny a filthy look that he didn’t seem to notice. Her dark expression caused a riff at the dinner table despite her silence, and everyone could feel it. A dragon temper didn’t need to be heard to be felt, after all. Not that it mattered—it wouldn’t change Johnny from being a shameless flirt.
Elyse was a beautiful woman in every way imaginable. It was not simply her patrician beauty, but she had such an unpretentious air, it was impossible not to feel comfortable in her presence. If Johnny had possessed finer filters, he would have been able to contain his shameless ogling, but alas, Tristan’s mate was not known for his tact.
He’s not known for much, Trevor thought irrelevantly. He had long since given up trying to figure out what Tristan saw in her husband. At least she found her mate, even if I think she can do so much better.
“Yeah, she’s something else,” Chris agreed, taking a sip of wine. Instantly, Trevor’s eyes darted toward Harley for some reason he didn’t entirely understand. When his gaze rested on the devilish glint in Harley’s half-drunken eyes, his entire frame tensed. He knew what was coming, and not for the first time, he wished he was as much of a drinker as every other member of his family. Perhaps today was the day to start, although he probably should have started well before he had gotten there.
He glanced somewhat enviously around at the tipsy people in his midst, wondering what it was like to be able to silence inhibitions on a whim.
No matter how many centuries passed, he could never get comfortable in the presence of others, particularly not when he felt like they were always out to undermine him in some way. He wasn’t built like the other Hollands, their very nature to fight and destroy. Trevor much preferred the silence of solitude to crowds.
“Now we just have to find Trevor a female even a fraction as good as Chris’ mate!” Harley piped in, shooting his cousin a coy smile. Trevor didn’t return Harley’s taunting grin.
Don’t give him any ammunition. He’s just looking for trouble. He loves getting a rise out of me, and he won’t stop until he does.
“That would be something.” Chris snorted with laughter. “Someone settling down with Trev. I’d love to see that happen one day.”
It was not so much a desire for his brother to find happiness which Christopher longed for as it was a need to humiliate Trevor as frequently as possible. While he wasn’t as merciless as Harley, Chris had no problem adding insult to injury.
Although the brothers were only two years apart and should have been best of friends, it became apparent at a young age that Chris and Trevor had very little in common. As teens, their mother insisted that it was healthy brotherly rivalry, but as the two grew into adulthood, Chris’ jabs became more constant and hurtful.
It had taken years to see, yet Trevor finally recognized that his brother was ashamed of him. Who could blame Chris? As the oldest, he had been athletic, popular, and charismatic, while Trevor had always had his nose stuck in a book, battling his weight, and struggling with social anxiety.
Chris had found his first wife and wed her in relatively short order, popping out his first child soon after. Trevor attempted online dating once every six months, only to end up feeling incredibly rejected and retreating into his shell to lick his wounds. Chris never gave up an opportunity to make his younger brother feel inadequate, and he had years of experience. As a result, Trevor tried desperately to avoid spending time with him. However, Christmas dinner was not an option when Annabelle Holland was the matriarch of the family.
“He loves you, Trev. You can’t take everything so personal. You have to learn to grow thicker skin,” she told her son firmly, sensing Trevor’s unspoken rejection. “The more you let him see how much he’s bothering you, the worse it’s going to be for you. Toughen up a little, honey.”
“Yeah, well, I’m almost five hundred, Mom. I don’t think I’m doing any more growing,” he replied dryly. “And frankly, I’m done trying.”
Despite Annabelle’s well-meaning intentions, her words could be just as cutting as her oldest son’s. It seemed to Trevor that since the passing of his father five years earlier, Annabelle had become an even darker person, never stopping to weigh the impact of her “advice” before she spoke. Or rather, she didn’t care about the impact of her opinion now that his father wasn’t around to keep her reined in. Who would have thought that he was actually taking the edge off?
Trevor could feel the mixture of odd emotions flowing around him; Tristan’s disapproval, Annabelle’s exasperation, Chris’ intoxicated mocking. It was all becoming too much to absorb, and he wanted to leave.
He considered simply getting up and walking out the door, but Chris’ daughter Ellsbeth padded up to him and grinned wickedly at her uncle, her bright eyes shining with adoration.
“Hi,” she said. “Wanna play hide and seek?”
No, Ellie. I just want to hide, he stopped himself from saying, returning his sweet niece’s smile
“After dinner, okay?”
“Okay,” she agreed with a grin before toddling off. Oh, how Trevor wanted to go with her.
Elyse returned from the kitchen, a can of club soda and another linen napkin in her hand. She headed gracefully toward him and instantly began dabbing at his shirt without invitation or warning.
“Elyse, he can do that himself!” Chris barked, his face red with anger, all glint of amusement fading from his eyes when he realized what his wife was doing. His fork dropped to his plate with a clatter, and he balled his fists in protest.
Again, Elyse ignored him and continued what she was doing while Tristan, Annabelle, and Johnny stared open-mouthed at the display.
This is not helping matters, Trevor thought, but he didn’t stop Elyse from helping either.
“Nice, Elyse! Hitting on Uncle Trevor!” Baxter, Chris’ twenty-year-old son, piped up and was quickly reprimanded by his father with a backhand to the head. “Ow, Dad!” Baxter yelled, rubbing his blonde head and glaring at his father. “What the hell was that for?”
“Show some respect to your stepmother!” Chris yelled, but it was clear his fury was focused exclusively on his brother. “Elyse, stop that right now.”
Albeit unperturbed by the outburst, Trevor’s sister-in-law ceased what she was doing and smiled warmly at him, ignoring her husband and stepson.
“Now it won’t leave a stain,” she told him. Blushing furiously, Trevor nodded, unable to speak. Elyse reclaimed her spot beside Chris and resumed eating her supper as if there had not been any interruption.
“So, uh, Trev, how is work going?” Tristan asked after a moment of awkward silence. He turned to his sister, grateful for the change in subject.
“It’s busy. I have a lot of projects on the go,” he answered truthfully, about to delve into the world of web design. His work was his pride and joy, his escape from the deep depression which was his life at times. Before he could continue, however, Chris snorted, and Trevor tensed so severely, he was sure he was going to snap in half.
“You would think that with all the money you’re making, you’d have landed yourself a trophy wife by now. It’s a sad day when a guy who is rolling in it can’t even buy a wife.”
Their sister had had enough of the abuse bestowed upon her brother, and she whipped her napkin onto her unfinished meal as if she had suddenly lost her appetite.
“Give it a rest,” Tristan snarled at Chris. “Not everyone makes marriage a sport.”
Another round of shocked silence overcame the table as Chris’ face went pale. Elyse was his eighth wife, and while Trevor would have never uttered the words out of his own mouth, he wanted to kiss his sister for saying it.
The truth is painful sometimes, he thought w
ith unusual cruelty. Trevor glanced furtively at Elyse, who simply kept eating, a sardonic smirk on her face. Her expression seemed to read “you deserved that, Chris.” She takes everything in stride. I like her so much more than any of the others he’s married.
“How dare you!” Chris jumped up from the table like he was going to strike his own sister. But he was no match for Tristan, who, although the youngest by ten years and a hundred pounds smaller than the oldest Holland sibling, had the mouth of a drunken sailor and the brains of a sober astronaut.
Just as fast, she was on her feet, staring Chris down, their almost identical hazel eyes clashing furiously. Her body half-morphed into her elongated dragon form, her fangs shining through to gleam against the candlelight that flittered about the table. She hissed at him, daring him to do the same.
“What? It isn’t slander if it’s true. Or don’t you remember that from your two-month bout of ‘wanting to become a lawyer?’ Sit the hell down and leave Trevor alone,” she hissed. “I am sick and tired of not being able to enjoy a single family meal without listening to your bullshit. Both of you.” She shifted her eyes toward Harley, who threw up his hands in mocking surrender.
“What did I do?” he asked innocently.
“Harley,” Will growled. “Just eat your supper.”
“Tristan Anne Bellamy!” Annabelle gasped, horrified at her daughter, but Tristan did not waver, and she silently challenged Christopher to speak, her bright eyes flashing with danger. Her forked tongue lashed out, the challenge in the open.
Chris opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. Elyse touched his arm, and as if he was drugged, he immediately sat back on his chair.
A small whimper sounded, and Tristan turned her head to stare at Elyse and Chris’ small daughter, who stared up at her aunt in shock. Immediately, Tristan shifted back into her mortal form and gave Ellsbeth a wink and smile.
“Sorry about that, family,” Tristan said nonchalantly, also sitting but still staring down her brother, daring him to speak. “Someone had to say it. And by the way, Elyse, I meant no offense to you. I can honestly say that of all of Chris’ wives, you have been my favorite.”
Trevor had to agree with the sentiment. Chris’ last marriage had spawned Baxter, the half-demon, half-dragon with the unmistakable cruel streak of his mother and the jabbing taunting of his father.
Thankfully, Ellsbeth is all Elyse.
“None taken,” Elyse replied smoothly, extending her arms for Ellsbeth to come to her, and the toddler ambled into her mother’s arms. Elyse smiled softly and turned to her brother-in-law. “Now, what were you saying, Trev? How is work going?”
Trevor Holland was a moderately wealthy being by society standards, although if anyone were to look at him, they would never have guessed it. His income crossed into the high seven figure bracket, and while he was self-employed as a web designer, his clientele base grew monthly. He had a small group of underlings whom he never saw, since everyone was employed from the safety and comfort of their own homes, just like he was from his.
Tristan, an accountant by trade, had been pushing him to set up his business properly before the International Revenue Service came knocking on his door, but Trevor had been putting it off because of his social anxiety. He didn’t want the stress of hiring secretaries and looking for office space. He also did not want anyone to know about his crippling anxiety. It was for this reason that he continued to carry on his thriving business from the security of his three-bedroom condo in Connecticut.
It would have been a wild venture to imagine Trevor as a success judging by the way he lived. A housekeeper came once a week to do the basics, such as washing the windows and cleaning behind the toilet, but the consensus around the cleaning agency was that Trevor was wasting his money. The condo was always impeccably kept, and even if it had not been, he had so few belongings, it made the chores a breeze.
He was a minimalist by nature, one who loathed clutter. His rooms were functional, with reasonably priced furniture but nothing ostentatious. He could not justify spending copious amounts of cash on material things, not because he was frugal, but because he didn’t feel as though he deserved them. What was the point of purchasing a five-thousand-dollar suit if no one ever looked at him? Who bought a Mercedes when they never went anywhere of interest?
There was nothing appealing about Trevor to Trevor. He was not attractive, witty, charming, or athletic like his brother. He couldn’t fight like his sister. Shifting was awkward for him, which made him do it less and less over the years. He had forsaken most of his abilities, falling into his mortal role much easier than his dragon one.
He still attended pack meetings, more out of obligation than interest. In his own mind, though, he wasn’t really one of the Enchanted. He wasn’t one of the mortals, either. To him, he was somewhere in between, floating in nothingness. Trevor was sure that if he ever went missing, no one would notice for weeks. He tried to tell himself that he preferred the company of books to people, but that was not true. The truth was that he was insufferably lonely, something that even his sister didn’t realize about him.
Tristan was the closest person he had to a friend in the world, and even she was worlds apart from him, although not as much as he and Christopher. The age difference had much to do with the slight strain in the potential relationship. Tristan was also married with a family, and while she went out of her way to include Trevor in outings and events, he always felt like he was the fifth wheel.
He tried to frequent bars or art galleries, but he was not much for socializing, and when it came to meeting people, he found himself tongue-tied, even though he wanted nothing more than companionship. Even in his weakest moments, he somehow managed to avoid the escort agencies and Craigslist, despite only wanting to feel the skin of another being against him. It had little to do with sex and everything to do with nearness.
He had almost thought he was willing to try speed dating or Plenty of Fish by the time that Christmas had rolled around. That night, when he stood in the elevator leading up to his seventeenth-floor condo, the familiar feeling of desperation had begun to fill his gut.
Why do you let Chris and Harley get to you like this? he asked himself for the millionth time. Chris is not perfect, either. Tristan is right. He’s been married eight times! You should not be comparing your romantic life to his. He’s got more than his fair share of problems, too. Even with that thought, Trevor couldn’t help but feel that Chris had so much more going on in his life than him.
It was after ten thirty at night, and although Trevor was basically a staunch teetotaler, he wandered over to the scarcely used liquor cabinet, pulling open his emails on his phone. He needed a distraction of some kind, and work could always provide that.
When all else fails, there’s always clients, he thought with grim amusement. He knew it wasn’t funny—it was sad, but it was also all he had.
Pouring himself a stiff scotch in a cheap, plastic glass, he sank onto the worn red futon he used as a couch. A soft blanket of snow had encased the picturesque town of Burlington, and the Berkshires twinkled under soft lighting, but Trevor was oblivious to the beauty of the season, scrolling through his email. Taking another sip of his potent drink, he was surprised to find that he had finished it. He stared at the glass blankly for a moment, wondering where the liquid had gone. Shrugging to himself, he rose and poured another, already feeling its effects.
Good. You need all the courage you can get, he told himself, this time filling the glass more than halfway and recklessly taking a swig, as if he were challenging the universe to object. Of course, lightning did not strike him down, and the flakes of crystalline snow continued to swirl around his full-length windows, taunting him in his misery.
Go to bed, Trevor. You’re drunk, he told himself bitterly. The snow isn’t mocking you. Only living, breathing beings do that.
It was at that time when an ad in the bottom left corner of the screen caught his eye. It simply read “European Nannie
s for Hire!” and it was likely clickbait, which Trevor had seen and disregarded dozens of times in the past. In what algorithm hell would he need a nanny for? But since his work had him on a sliding scale of websites for research, his Google searches warranted the most interesting ad and Amazon suggestions on all his social media.
That night, however, a combination of the alcohol and the sadness led his mouse over the icon, which he hit to open the website for no real reason he could understand. He didn’t even have a kid, why was he clicking on it? He had no answer to the question. He found himself staring at the screen, redirected to the world of mail order brides, thinly veiled as an international nanny service.
A mixture of disgust and intrigue overcame Trevor as he set up an account through hazy eyes. He knew he was doing it, but his fingers flew over the keyboard like he was possessed by something else.
I’ll blame this on a poltergeist tomorrow, he giggled to himself drunkenly. Within minutes, he was staring at stunningly beautiful women, mostly Eastern European and East Asian, boasting their domestic talents while coyly dropping sexual innuendos.
Trevor was fascinated, mostly because he had never stumbled onto such a site before. Sure, he’d seen ads for porn or “dating,” but this was something else. These were women willing to move to America and live-in while taking care of his house and presumably other things. An inner voice was deeply ashamed that he was entertaining the thought at all, but he couldn’t seem to look away in his inebriated state.
His eyes growing heavy, Trevor began to slip into that place between dreaming and full consciousness. A stunningly sensuous redhead was standing by his coffee table, wearing nothing but an apron. Her supple, natural breasts were covered by the cotton and lace but spilled dangerously out the side while the bottom of the thin cloth just barely hid the runway between her creamy, white thighs. She was holding a silver tray in her hands, her long hair spilling silkily down her shoulder.