But I don't go. Not yet.
I lean back against my bike and look up at the sky. Too much light pollution to see stars, but I look anyway. Somewhere up there, the universe is doing its thing, completely indifferent to the fact that I've ruined the best thing that ever happened to me.
I think about all the things I should have done differently.
I should have told him about the others before we slept together. Should have explained that they meant nothing, that he was different, that my lion had never reacted to anyone the way he reacted to Toby. I should have made sure he knew the drawer was old, the stories were old, that none of it had anything to do with him.
I should have told him I was falling for him.
I should have said the words out loud instead of assuming he'd just know. Assuming thatminewas enough, that the bath and the fruit and the way I couldn't stop touching him would speak for themselves.
He's human. He doesn't have lion instincts telling him what a claim means. He just had my actions, and then my pack's careless words, and he drew the obvious conclusion.
I can't even blame him for it.
Somewhere in the building, a dog barks. A car passes on the street behind me, headlights sweeping across the parking lot. Normal life, happening all around me, while I sit here drowning in my own mistakes.
I sit there for another hour, watching nothing, feeling everything. The cold seeps through my jacket. My hands go numb on the handlebars. My lion eventually settles into a miserable ball in my chest, exhausted from wanting what he can't have.
At 3 AM, I finally start the engine.
The ride back to the bar is long and empty. I take the slow route, the scenic route, the route that means I don't have to be in my apartment staring at the bed where I claimed him. Where I woke up the next morning thinking everything was perfect, not knowing it was all about to fall apart.
When I get back, the bar is dark. Everyone's gone to bed. There's a plate of food wrapped in plastic on the counter with a note in Jason's handwriting:Eat something. You'll feel better. (You won't actually feel better but at least you won't be hungry AND miserable.)
I don't eat. I don't go to bed. I just sit at the bar in the dark and wait for morning, when I can pretend to be functional again.
Just a few more days until the marks are gone.
Until there's no evidence I ever touched him.
I don't know how I'm supposed to survive that.
Chapter 15
Toby
Thursday morning. Story hour day.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror and try to convince my reflection that everything is fine. The bruises on my neck have faded to a sickly yellow-green, easily hidden under the collar of my button-down. The scratches are gone. The finger-shaped shadows on my hips are just faint smudges now, visible only if you know to look.
Only the bite remains. Deep and dark on my shoulder, still tender when I press against it. Still there.
I button my shirt all the way up and try not to think about it.
"You don't have to go in today," Robin says from the doorway, holding a mug of coffee like a peace offering. "You could call in sick again. Margaret can handle one more day."
"I already missed a day." I take the coffee, grateful for the warmth. "If I miss today too, she'll use it as ammunition. You know she's been looking for an excuse to cancel story hour."
"Fuck Margaret."
"I wish someone would. Maybe she'd be less awful."
Robin snorts, but his eyes are worried. He's been watching me like this for days—careful, gentle, waiting for me to shatter. I hate that I've given him reason to.
"I'm fine," I say, even though we both know it's a lie. "I can do this. It's just reading to kids. I've done it a hundred times."
"You've never done it with a broken heart before."
