She slides back the covers beside her, inviting me to crawl into that empty spot.
I want to.By God and his frostbitten nuts, I want to.The smell of her skin.The shape of her beneath the sheets.Every part of me is wired to dive back under, crawl into her heat, and forget.
I shouldn’t.Because I’m carrying the taste of her brother’s come in my mouth.
But I need her.My bones ache with it.
I can’t.If I take what she’s offering, it won’t be clean.It’ll be a theft.
My feet move before I decide.The exit is closer than the bed, and I take it, gripping the doorframe until my knuckles blanch.
Behind me, the covers rustle.
I look back.
Her room is ordinary.A bed for two people, a chair that’s never used, clothes on the floor.The ordinariness is a benediction.
Ordinary means no one is starving or freezing or bleeding beneath a rutting devil.Ordinary means there’s a lock on the bedroom door for privacy not protection, and the world didn’t end in a cabin.
“I’ll tell you what happened with Jag yesterday, and about the monster who raised me and the doctor who cut me.I’ll introduce you to every boogeyman in my closet.”The promise scrapes out like gravel, and I can’t look at her, not directly.“But first, I need today to get my head straight.Can you give me that?”
“If you need space, I can go to work for a while.Keep my hands busy and earn my keep.”
She’s offering me distance like it’s mercy, like the only help she knows how to give is her absence.
My gut twists, because she doesn’t get it.Sending her away from the island is the last thing I want.But it might be the only way I can have a come-to-Jesus with my demons.
“Only if you take the bodyguards.”I meet her eyes.“And only if you promise you’ll come back to me after.”Begging totally kills my vibe, but I’m doing it anyway.“I know you’re not sure about us.I get it.Just… Give me the day.Listen to my horror story tonight.Then decide.”
Every nerve in me waits for her to flinch.To tell me to keep my monsters to myself.
“Wolf…” Her shoulders drop on a sigh.“I don’t want to go.I just… I worry being here makes it worse for you.”
Her honesty hits harder than if she’d pulled away.She doesn’t make it worse.She’s the only thing that makes it bearable.
“But if what you need is time, I’ll give it.”She straightens.“I’ll be back tonight.And I’ll listen.”
Relief and dread collide in me, a lightning crash behind the ribs.
How will she look at me after I tell her what I did with Jag and what Denver did to me?It won’t make her jump my bones, that’s for damn sure.
“Tonight.”I push off the doorframe and don’t wait for her answer.
Down the hall and in my room, I dump the journals on my bed and tackle easy tasks.Shower, clean teeth, heavy eyeliner, and clothes.
The last one requires some thought.
If I’m about to drown in Frankie’s journal, I need pieces that will hold up when my ribs come undone and my insides spill out.
I pull on black jeans, stiff with wear, and a gray T-shirt so tattered and ugly it matches my scars.Over that, a flannel with sleeves rolled to the elbows.No color.No flair.The whole outfit screams,I’m still here but not pretty about it.
With the journals under my arm, I head downstairs and find Dove by the door, shrugging into her bomber jacket.
She showered, too, her damp hair half-up, half-loose.A messy knot high on her head lets waves of electric blue tumble around her shoulders.More strands fall in her eyes, and she doesn’t bother pushing them away.
I catch a flash of a tank top, cropped at her midriff, baring a heavenly slice of skin.Pants black as asphalt, pockets stitched over pockets, and boots with green neon laces.
My chest tightens with the sudden, stupid thought.When she walks out that door, I won’t be the one who gets to follow her.
