I honestly don’t know how he has the patience. He’s a fucking saint.
It’s a shame, really, that he’s stuck with me. I pride myself on so many things—my strength, my toughness, my stubbornness. But right now, all of those are my biggest weaknesses. Because they’re stopping me from doing the one thing I want.
“If I were you, I’d be thoroughly sick of me.”I amsick of me.
I’m not the easiest person to get along with. I’ve always known that. In fact, I remember being surprised Lucas fell in love with me when he did. I hardly had any free time to date, working at Rolling Scones six mornings a week, starting at four a.m., and then going to bed each night at five p.m. But he was one of the few people I met who found my need to plan ahead for every situation endearing instead of infuriating. It matched his need to keep safe and to never take unnecessary risks—at least, until I started planning my bakery, and then he got cold feet, and I left.
“Never,” he says. “You are the most interesting thing that has happened to me.”
The light from my stolen wall sconce bounces off the water and reflects off the cave walls so that the shadows dance around Killan and me. It accentuates the curves of his horns, encircling his head like a crown. He could claim to be the king of this planet, and I’d believe him. He’s majestic like a king. And he issues orders like a king.
“Do you ever think I’ll get home?” I lie back, floating and staring up at the ceiling. It’s easier to ask when I’m not looking directly at him. “Truthfully.”
“Truthfully—” The word is followed by a heartbreakingly long pause. “No. But not for lack of trying.”
I’m not surprised. I’m not even surprised by my lack of surprise. This whole time I’ve been running away from the truth, but it was bound to catch up with me sooner or later. “Sometimes I worry that I’ve been pretending to myself that I want to return home as an excuse—” I hate the way my voice bounces off the cave walls, magnified.
He doesn’t say anything. He’s giving me the space I need. Like he always does.
“Sometimes…” I clear my throat. “Sometimes I think I’m using it as an excuse because I’m scared of admitting how easy it would be to start a brand-new life here. Because what does that say about my old life that it’s so easy to give up?”
I sit up because I suddenly want to see his face. I want to know if he’s judging me.
He’s looking directly at me, as if he’s been watching me this entire time. Sure, he’s scowling, but it’s a small scowl. Such a small scowl it’s basically the Killan version of a smile.
“You are not giving up,” he says. “Your old life was stolen from you, and you are mourning what you have lost.”
“Mourning,” I repeat the word, mulling it over. It does kind of fit how I’ve been feeling. “I’m mourning my bakery,” I say, testing it out. “I’m mourning my old relationships.”
“You are mourning the idea you had of your future.”
“Yeah, I think I am.” Breaststroke style, I swim close enough that I can wrap my arms around his neck. It’s as easy as I thought it would be. There isn’t any moment of hesitation when I worry about whether he wants me to hold him. It feels achinglyfamiliar, being in his arms.
Chapter Eighteen
Killan
Ireturn us to shore, shaking to dislodge the water from my scales. Lydia is not nearly so waterproof, and when I put her down, she shivers with cold.
“Akh…” Is this the purpose of clothes? But what if the clothes are also wet?
I hold my arms open. “I will warm you.”
“The point of getting into the water was to cool off,” she says, but she steps closer, tucking herself against me and resting her icy fingers on my chest.
I sit, not-so-subtly arranging us so that Lydia is again seated on my lap.
“I never asked about your missing arm.” She tips her head back to look up at me. “Asking always felt too much like caring.”
“And now?”
“I don’t think I’d be fooling anyone if I said I didn’t care.” She smiles. “But only if you want to talk about it.”
I raise my fourth arm, cut short above the elbow. Scars mark the stump from a surgery I do not remember.
“I was born with a congenital disorder. My wrist did not form, and I did not have a hand. There was an attempt, when I was young, to attach a permanent prosthetic. It did not take.”
“If you were still a child, how would that have worked?” Lydia’s brow is wrinkled in thought. “The prosthetic would’ve had to grow with you. Is that possible?”
