Cressida’s hand is in mine, grounding me in a way nothing else does. It’s strange how something so small can settle all the noise in my head and give me clarity.
I don’tneedher.
Iwanther.
That’s the difference.
Needing someone feels like weakness, and I’ve had enough of that in my life. But wanting her—that’s deliberate, conscious. She is not my escape, but she is my calm. And hell, that might scare me more than anything else.
Maya notices. Of course she does. It’s hard not to notice because I won’t let Cressida’s hand go, no matter what.
Her first mistake was offering it to me.
Now I have her trapped, never to escape.
“Soren,please,” Maya whines.
“Keep working, show me you can change. But for now, you aren’t my priority,” I tell Maya.
“That does not mean you can take my son again. I have nothing to do with any of this,” Cressida interjects hotly. “Next time you do something so stupid, not even your brother will be able to stop me.”
“I see it now, I do. And I’m sorry for doing that to you,” Maya says to Cressida. “I hope one day you can forgive me. I never meant the kid any harm. I just didn’t know how else to make my brother see that we are all each other has.”
“But you aren’t. Some people go their entire lives without family. Family is what you make it, so make your own and love your brother for everything he’s done for you. Right now, you use him and abuse his generosity. Why? Because he has money? Because you are the only woman he struggles to say no to?”
I squeeze her hand. She’s wrong about one thing—it’s not my sister I struggle to deny. It’s Hurricane, the black-haired raven next to me.
My sister’s gaze slides to me.
“I’ve started therapy,” she says. “With Arlo.”
Why did he not tell me that?Granted, I’ve been avoiding a lot of things lately and not talking to many people. It’s hard when you feel like your life is a fucking shithole.
“Good,” I tell her.
She glances back at Cressida again. “I should go.” Maya’s voice is small and quiet.
“You should,” I agree.
She gives a stiff nod, then turns and leaves. There is a part of me that wants to feel sorry for her, but I don’t. My only concern right now is the woman whose hand is still in mine. I need to work out how I can keep her, how to make her mine.
“I should go too,” Cressida says, and tries to pull her hand away, but I don’t let it go. Instead, I tug her into my chest, our bodies pressing together, and slide my hand up to her cheek. I love touching her face. This woman expresses so many emotions every time I do it. Like right now, her blue eyes are locked on mine, wide with surprise.
If I cracked her head open, could I see what she’s thinking?
Probably not.
And to be honest, her head is way too pretty for that anyway.
“Stay,” I say.
“I can’t.”
“We need to talk about us,” I tell her.
Her hands lift and cover mine, where they rest against her cheek. “We probably should,” she agrees.
At least she isn’t telling me no.
