I glanced at them. One was wrapped in cellophane, the other sported a bacon-shaped Band-Aid Jean had insisted I use.
“They wanted my blood instead.”
His shoulders jerked. “You gave it to them? Is that a tattoo? Did you let someone mark you?”
“Why are you angry? You have tattoos.”
“This isn’t about the tattoo.”
“Then what is your problem?”
“My problem is you keep letting other people just—do—this kind of shit to you.”
“That’s not fair. You aren’t angry that I got attacked by a demon—again. You’re angry that I’m finding my way through this without you. Well, you’re only in town about three hours a day. Sorry you couldn’t fit me into your schedule.”
Every word was even and steady. I wanted to take them back the moment they were out of my mouth. Before then. I wanted to go back to months ago when everything between us was easy and okay.
My heart pounded like a battle drum, shaking me, shaking the world around me.
Ryder stood so still, I wondered if I’d actually spoken out loud. Then he looked away, over my shoulder, at the ceiling. “I’m sorry,” he said tightly. “I shouldn’t have said…it that way.”
“No,” I said. “You shouldn’t have. I don’t let anyone do things to me without my permission and without knowing the consequences—which I’m willing to live with. I was attacked, Ryder. I didn’t invite that demon to set his hooks in my soul.”
He pressed his hand against the back of his neck and squeezed. That’s when I realized how tired he looked. How thin. He nodded, but still wouldn’t make eye contact.
He pushed the food around with his fork, spreading out that stupid pea-filled salad.
My stomach clenched in a sour knot, but I lifted my coffee and took a drink. We were both aiming for normal, trying not to let the words break the evening, but it was too late.
“You’re not getting much sleep,” I said. It was stilted and soft, but was the best I could do.
His eyes flicked up to mine, searching for anger, for blame and finding none. He looked away again, back to separating peas from pasta.
“I’m not at my best right now either,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the fancy dinner tonight.” There, that was my white flag. That was all I had in me.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make it to dinner last night.” He forked salad into his mouth and chewed.
I sighed and pressed my fingers over my eyes. “Is this about us?” I asked, not looking at him yet. Not able to. “Is this about wanting different things?”
“It’s not…that isn’t what…Delaney, you can look at me. I’m not…I’m sorry I was angry.”
I took one breath, savoring the darkness behind my fingers. I wasn’t hiding because he was angry. I was just trying to prepare myself for the truth. For whatever we were about to tell each other.
There was choppy water ahead. The kind of water broken and sharpened by hurricane winds. The kind of water that tore a ship into tiny splinters before sinking it forever.
A storm. Unavoidable.
I dropped my hands and opened my eyes.
He was watching me, his plate pushed aside. He looked like he had a stomachache, a headache. He looked like a heartbreak ready to crack.
“Oh, gods,” I exhaled, knowing the ship was taking on water, but uncertain if I should bail it out, or hold my breath and swim for shore.
“Hey, no, hey.” He reached, his hand catching mine. The familiar scratch of callouses, rougher now that he was spending every spare minute on one job site or another, calmed me.
“We’re good, right?” he said. “This, us…it’s good?”
“It’s good. We’re good,” I said.
