The thought brings with it a flashing image of furious, fierce ocean eyes and a fire extinguisher coming straight at my face. The connection pulls at me even across the distance, a need I don't understand and don't want to examine too closely.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Chapter
Fifty-Two
THANE
The morning light's coming through the shitty motel curtains, but I've been awake for hours. Not that I've moved. Ivy's nestled between us like she belongs there, and disturbing her feels like some kind of sacrilege. Her hair looks more auburn in this light, the natural copper shining through the dark dye, spreading across my arm where she's using me as a pillow. Every soft exhale tickles against my chest through my shirt.
Wraith's been awake longer than me. I can tell by the way his massive frame stays perfectly still, too controlled to be actual sleep. His blue eyes track every shift of Ivy's breathing, every flutter of her eyelashes, like he's memorizing her in case she disappears.
The poor bastard's got it bad.
Then again, so do I.
I catch his eye over Ivy's sleeping form and sign carefully, keeping my movements small so we don't wake her.You sleep at all?
No,he signs back, and there's no apology in it. Just fact. His gaze drops back to Ivy's face, and something painfully soft crosses his features above that black mask.
Watching her sleep?I sign, unable to keep the slight tease out of my expression.
He doesn't even look embarrassed. Just nods once, his scarred hand ghosting over her hair without quite touching. Like he's afraid even that gentle contact might shatter whatever spell keeps her here with us.
You're stressed,I observe, reading the tension in his shoulders, the way his other hand keeps clenching and unclenching against his thigh.
Clinic,he signs, the movement sharp.And Mom.
Right. Today's the day he faces both his demons—the medical team that keeps him functional and the mother who can't remember him as anything but a monster. No wonder he didn't sleep.
Want to talk about the plan?I sign.
He shrugs, but it's the kind of shrug that means he needs to talk but doesn't want to admit it. Classic Wraith.
Clinic first?I suggest.
Yes. Get it out of the way.His signs are clipped.Then Mom.
Both in one day?I ask. I know he prefers it that way—ripping off the bandaid all at once—but it always leaves him fucked up afterward. Sometimes for weeks.
Another shrug. This one's heavier, weighted with years of doing this alone.
You know how you get after,I sign carefully.Depressed. Withdrawn.
So?The sign is almost aggressive in its dismissiveness.
So maybe you should bring Ivy,I suggest, watching his reaction carefully.To the care center, at least. Having someone there might?—
His entire body goes rigid, and the look he gives me could peel paint.No.
Why not?
Not a good idea.His signs are getting smaller, tighter, like he's trying to physically compress himself despite his massive size.
The clinic?I push, because someone has to.She could wait in the car?—
NO.This time the sign is so forceful I'm worried it might wake Ivy. But she just murmurs something in her sleep and burrows deeper into my chest.
