Ravaged (Burned Inc.) by Naima Simone

Author:Naima Simone [Simone, Naima]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Montlake
Published: 2022-11-14T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

JORDAN

“I’m a changeling. Shit happens.”

—North the Woodsman, Ravaged Lands

I ring the doorbell and stare at the double front doors of the Castle Pines home and wait for it. And she doesn’t keep me waiting for long. My grin stretches wide by the time my mom throws the door open.

“Boy, I told you don’t ever ring my doorbell. Not ever again.” Grace Ransom props her fists on her slim hips and glares at me. “I gave you a key for a reason. No son of mine rings or knocks to come into my house. The door is always open.”

“Yes, ma’am. Although to be fair, I am your only son, so there’s that.”

“Mouthy as always.” Her scowl melts into a huge smile, and she holds out her arms to me.

And as always, I walk into them.

Her familiar lavender scent envelops me as securely, as warmly as her embrace, and I sink into it. No matter where we’ve laid our heads over the years—and there have been several places—this right here will always be home.

“Get in here.” She releases me and jerks a thumb over her shoulder. Leaving me to follow, she pads away, and I close the door behind me. “Your aunts are headed over in a couple of hours. They’ll be happy to see you since it’s been a while.”

“Wow, that was subtle.” I laugh. “Point taken.”

“Oh, no, no,” Mom says, holding up a finger and wagging it at me without turning around. “The point won’t be taken until your aunts get their say in. And trust me, Jordy, it’s not going to be as gentle as mine.”

“Has it ever?” I mutter, then huff out a laugh.

The Ransom sisters. Grace, Maggie, and Delilah. As long as I can remember, they’ve been inseparable, thicker than any thieves. Unfortunately, they’ve also shared the same shitty taste in men over the years too. God knows we love them, but my cousins and I have endured their string of bad choices like good little soldiers.

“What’re you three up to? And should we all be scared?” I drawl, entering the kitchen behind her.

Though Mom worked hard as hell when I was growing up—sometimes two jobs—she always found time to cook me meals. Always. For her, it was a way of showing her love. And when I bought this home for her, not ten minutes away from me, the huge gourmet-style kitchen had been one of the main features. Top-of-the-line appliances, a butler’s pantry, custom cabinetry, and a dine-in area that opens up to a beautiful outdoor covered patio encompass a gorgeous room that is my mother’s favorite. More often than not, I can find her here rather than any of the other rooms in this five-bedroom, five-bathroom house. And like today, the most delicious smells usually emanate from it.

Glancing up from the pot she’s stirring, she arches an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, did I wake up one instead of fifty-one and suddenly have to answer to you?”

I hold up my hands, warding off the “You’re not too old to get told off” lecture that’s 2.

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