“No, no, I’m not.” I take a minute to pick out the dark, dry streaks of blood down one side of his face. “Neither are you.”
He coaxes me into his arms, both of us leaning against the back wall of the RV, dust motes dancing in the slits of lightsnaking in around the blinds. Fluffington stretches against me, his nails plucking at the blanket.
Walker breaks our silent vigil. “I have a concussion, but I think I’m fine otherwise. The guy tailing us got me in the gut. I ended up slammed into the wall. But I got him back with a bag of cat litter, so I’m going to claim any bad-ass points available.”
“Was he...” I can’t even ask.
“He was breathing, but out of it.”
The bile threatens again, but I snatch an opened bottle of water from the nightstand and take slow sips until it settles. “Our tail, I don’t know. If he was breathing, that is.”
“Did RJ—”
I shake my head. “No. Me.”
He drags me against him, but I don’t want to melt into his touch. I might be a killer. Killers don’t get comforting hugs. They don’t get the sweet motion of a hand stroking my head, my back, pulling me flush against him. They definitely don’t deserve soft lips pressed to my temple.
But it hurts to stay tense. It hurts to not take the comfort offered.
I need it.
I might be a killer, but I’m also a girl being held by a guy she loves.
Slowly, I accept his comfort, my stomach still twisted and my hands shaking. Am I a killer? Should I have checked so I know for sure? Or is it better to not know for sure?
And why the fuck was I not helping RJ sooner? Why did I let the fight get that far along?
Textbook answers drift into my mind, listing all kinds of trauma responses that seem wholly illogical, cleaning being one of them, but still, this is me. Why didIfreak out and become the weirdo skittering around the edges of the room trying to coax a cat into a bag instead of keeping RJ safe? He was in a nakedsword fight against a professional security guard. If that doesn’t scream ‘I need help,’ I’m not sure what does.
“Why am I so broken?” I mumble against Walker’s chest, not expecting an answer.
He gives me one anyway. “That stained glass window is a work in progress, princess. We’ll get there. Eventually.”
“It’s turning into a busted mess.”
“Then we try again. As many times as it takes. And each time, it’ll be better. Closer to what we truly want. More vibrant, more detailed, the tiny crusts of glass we thought we’d lost forever finally finding their perfect spot, our lives more colorful than we can imagine right now.”
Leaning into him, I try to imagine what he sees so clearly. “Do you really think that’s our future?”
He scoots back, tilting my chin up, holding me so I can’t look away. “I believe that with everything I have. Right now, shit sucks. But we have a long, beautiful road ahead of us. We just have to scrape the canvas clean. Then it’s all white space, waiting for our story to cover it with the beautiful colors we’ll make together.”
I blink back tears, wishing for his truth so strongly that words are hard.
He makes it sound so easy, so peaceful and gorgeous. Is it really that simple? Could it be?
His lips are soft as they meet mine, neither of us ready to up the heat, only taking comfort in the other’s presence.
Curling against his side, the rumble of the RV soothes me, along with his slow strokes down my back.
Am I a killer?
Maybe.
But I’m also safe, loved, and have a future.
When a gray head butts my hand, the rumble of purrs joining the hum of the RV, it steals the last of my tension.
Things aren’t good. Far from it.
