“Poem,” Wolfe mutters. “Kindness.”
I turn on him, the freakingidiot. “Kindness? You think it was kindness to bring him up here to ‘communicate’ with me when he clearly hasn’t done an ounce of the inner work necessary to get through an entire grown-up conversation about this? You think it was kindness to drop his mess onmeinstead of supportingyourbrotheryourselfand helping him get to a place where he could handle confronting his feelings with the person who triggered them?” My fists clench around the soft, loose fabric of my skirt. “Absolutely not, Wolfe. You know I love you, and you know I respect you, and you know I think the world of you, butabsolutely not. This–” I drop my skirt to cut an irate hand toward Fox. “–is not kindness. This iscruel. I waslaughingat him, Wolfe. I was giddy about all of my plans to manipulate and control him, thinking I was using the desires of his body to do it. I was lying here on his couch, kicking my feet,thrilledat the notion, and you brought him in here to talk to me about the upset and… and… what, upheaval it’s causing him? Even after you saw me, all you did was give a small warning we both knew I’d ignore about being nice to him. What would have beennice, Wolfe, was if you’d taken stock of my attitude and gotten himaway from meto process his feelings in asafe space.” My teeth clench as my eyes divert to Fox, who remains bent over, hands in his hair, distress oozing out of him. One of his favorite curse words graces my lips, and I turn back to Wolfe.
“Don’t talk to me aboutkindnesswhen you dragged me into this. I’m many things to him, Wolfe, but I’m notcruel, and I don’t appreciate you making me be. And I doubly don’t appreciate the insinuation that me doing whatyoushould have done is further cruelty. You didn’t want to give him tough love. You didn’t want to actually help him deal with his feelings. So now you don’t get to judge me as I do it for you.”
He has the decency to look horrified, at least, but it doesn’t appease my anger. If anything, it skyrockets it. “Don’t you startthrowing a pity party, too,” I hiss. “Save feeling bad for later. Right now, we have bigger things to worry about.”
Like, for instance, the way that Fox appears to be digging his fingernails straight through his skull and into his brain.
I rise, round the coffee table, and digmyfingernails into his wrists, forcing him to release himself. He shudders when my hand slides into the back of his mussed hair. I tug on the strands until he sits tall and straight. His hands fist on his knees, knuckles white.
I bend, putting our noses hardly an inch apart. “Explain what you meant by ‘isn’t mine yet and can’t be mine any time soon,’” I order. “Specifically the ‘can’t be’ part, because I get the feeling that has nothing to do with me not being in love with you back and everything to do with your opinions of your current and past self.”
He winces and tries to turn away, but I thread my other hand through his hair as well, keeping his head in place. “No running,” I boss. “No leaving. No making yourself as small as you can be to get away from howawfulyou feel.” My fingers flex, and I press the pads of their tips into his scalp, dragging them along his soft, dark strands. “Don’t be a coward.”
It may be harsh, but I know from experience that it’s needed. You don’t get yourself out of horrors by shrinking. You don’t get away from them by refusing to confront them. You don’t get away from them by running. All you get is a lifetime of those horrors visiting you at the worst of times and in the worst of ways. The only good way out? Confront them and slash them to pieces.
I didn’t get my good way out because my horrors were people. But Fox’s nightmares? They live only inside of him.
And so we’ll slash them until they’re gone.
His gaze shifts to Wolfe, and I shake him. “Don’t be a coward,” I repeat.
He gulps.
He inhales a rough, painful breath.
Then, my heart patters with a pride I have no place feeling when helistens, licking swollen lips before muttering gruffly, “I haven’t earned you.”
“What a stupid thing to say,” I reply, ruthless. “As ifyouget to decide that.Idecide if I’ve been earned or not.” I twist the knife. “Which meansIam the one who gets to say you haven’t earned anything from me but games and kisses.”
He flinches.
“I don’t think–”
“Shut up,” I interrupt Wolfe. “It’s my turn to handle him.”
“I haven’t earned the games or the kisses, either,” Fox says, the words ripped from his chest. “I haven’t earnedanything.”
I pull at his hair. “Idecide.”
“And what if you’ve decided wrong?” he asks. “What then?”
“Then that’s my mistake to make,” I reply, anger slicing my words through the air. “You don’t get to choose what I offer to you, Fox. You only get to decide how much you take.”
“Fine. Then I don’t deserve totakeanything.”
“Better,” I praise, gentling my grip. “Now, explain what’s behind that.”
His head tries to jerk beneath my hands. “Poem,” he very nearly whimpers, “we both know what’s behind that. It’s your favorite ammunition.”
“I know what I’ve assumed about your insecurities,” I correct. “What I’ve picked up from bits and pieces of things you’ve said, but my assumptions aren’t lining up perfectly withthisresponse from you, so I want to hear your insecurities from your own lips. Tell me what’s wrong with you, Fox. Lay it out for me to judge, then I’ll tell you if you’re right or if you’re wrong.”
His brows furrow, and he fights against my hold once more. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking me to do?”
Frustrated, my fingers tighten, and I try a different approach.
“I’m afraid of not being wanted,” I declare.
