SIXTEEN
COMFORT AND TRUTH
Vivian
I’m holding onto Zion for dear life.
It’s either that, or I throw myself off this motorcycle and run back to where my sister is being held. Obviously, I know this would be stupid, but I can’t say I’m feeling overly intelligent right now.
Even though I have a decent idea of what goes on there, seeing her in such a terrible position threw me directly into full-on panic mode. Especially when I knew I had no choice but to leave her behind.
Let's just say self-preservation has never been my forte.
My arms tighten even further around Zion’s waist, and I almost wish I wasn’t wearing this stupid helmet so I could press my face right into his back.
He slows slightly, and then his palm presses against the back of my hand, his thumbs stroking in a silent bid to comfort me. Of course, that’s the other big question in this equation. Who is this guy, and why is he putting up with my shit?
He gives the back of my hand a few more pats before releasing me, and then I meld myself closer, bracing myself for the twist of the throttle I know is coming.
He runs through the gears rapidly until we’re flying down the highway. I’m sure the trees and cars are flying by, the wind a comforting whistle around us as he quickly puts more distance between us and my sister’s cage.
Before too long, he slows, and I glance up to see we’ve arrived at his place. He cruises up the driveway slightly faster than is probably safe, and for a moment, I think he’s going to head up to the main house, but then seems to change his mind and instead heads toward the stable.
I don’t release my grip on his waist entirely, but I do ease up, sitting back slightly as I watch the garage door open. I have that odd feeling of déjà vu as I once again find myself sitting tiredly behind him as he rolls into the building, uncertain of what’s going to happen next.
Zion manages to extricate himself from the bike with me still seated. He removes his helmet, securing it before turning to me. I see the worried expression on his face through my visor as his hands make quick work of the strap, and then he’s gently pulling it off my head. He secures it with his own before turning back to me. His hands grip my cheeks gently, and I close my eyes as I soak in the electric heat of his touch. I’m tired, the mental and physical exhaustion making me feel as if my bones are made of lead.
The past few months of my life have revolved around locating Gemma, and now that I have, I’m torn between relief and complete despair. Because knowing where she is doesn’t save her. And even if I manage to break her free, maybe it’s too late for her to be saved.
A low sob breaks free, and though I try to choke it back, it’s too late. Even if he didn’t hear it for some reason, I feel like hewould have felt it. A shiver runs over him, and then he’s pulling me, his hands moving from my face to my waist as he stoops down, wrapping his arms around me and tugging me into him as he says, “Hold onto me.”
I do what I’m told, accepting that even if I wanted to deny him, I’m entirely incapable. I wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, and he hefts me up. Turning, he walks across the room, and I ask, “Where are we going?”
He boosts me up slightly, shushing me softly as he quickens his pace. And then he stops, teetering me around to the point that I giggle, and then a door rolls open, and he’s moving again.
The scent of hay permeates my senses. I inhale deeply, allowing the nostalgic familiarity to comfort me.
A soft neighing answers Zion’s incoherent mutterings. Of course, by now, I know what he’s up to, and the smile I press against his neck is genuine. The stall door slides open, and then a soft muzzle musses my hair before tickling my neck.
Laughing lightly, I release my grip on his neck and waist, and he slowly eases me to the ground. I look up at him rather sheepishly as I ask, “What is this?”
He lifts a shoulder dismissively, his eyes on Seamus as he replies, “Nothing eases a hurt like a horse.”
I give him my best not-buying-it look. “So he’s a therapy horse now?”
He squints at me. “Not officially,” he pauses. His hand moves to one of mine, and he lifts it and presses my palm against Seamus’s neck, and then he moves and grabs my other hand until I’m gripping Seamus around his neck. I frown, but then Zion nudges me from behind until I’ve stepped into the horse and I’m hugging him, and Seamus, being the therapy guru that he is, turns his head around so his neck curves and he’s hugging me with his head.
My breath catches in my throat, and I find myself pressing my face against his warm coat, grateful I’m able to hide my sudden distress against his muscular neck.
Zion rubs me between the shoulders a few times and then whispers, “I’ll be right back.” I don’t bother responding as I’m sure he wasn’t waiting for a response.
Seamus remains still. I stroke the sides of his neck with my fingers, a few quiet tears soaking into his coat, punctuated by the occasional shifting of his hooves and twitching of a muscle, soft huffing breath against my back.
By the time Zion returns, I’ve managed to collect myself. I’m still standing close to Seamus, but no longer gripping onto him for dear life. As if he senses the shift in my mood, Seamus relaxes, nodding his big head at me, nudging me with his soft muzzle. Laughing, I pet him playfully as I say, “Are you a clown now?”
“Don’t let him fool you,” Zion interrupts from the stall door. “He’s only a clown if he likes you. If he doesn’t, he’s a shithead.”
I smile at the sweet horse. “No way. Look at him.”
