Stopping my climb onto the trampoline, I nod. “You’re right; it’s not.”
I drop to the ground and walk to the door. “I was trying to keep my promise about not leaving. Clearly, that won’t be possible. I’m going to skate for a couple of hours while I sort this out. This is about me—only me—and I need to deal with it. It’s noone’s responsibility but my own. Until I do, I’m poison. Don’t be angry; no one can help me with this. This is all me.”
I straighten my spine and grit my teeth, picking up my bloody towels, toe shoes, and tape. I have to manoeuvre carefully because everything in me is screaming in emotional pain or from the physical abuse I subjected myself to.
Whispering low, I look at him. “I’m sorry.”
Heading out of the gym to our closet, I drop the dirty shit and change. Braiding my hair into one tight, long plait, I pull on skintight holy jeans and a corset tank. Combat boots finish the job, and though it might be a little artifact finder of me, I feel ready to do some soul-searching.
I hear him shout something obscene from the other room and then go silent. I sigh and disapperate, hoping I can figure my shit out before I come home.
One thing is for sure, I’m pretty fucking glad that I haven’t let either of them open my darkest door. After last night, I know that decision was correct.
It would ruin everything—if there’s anything left of me to ruin.
The Bird Rages Against The Blade
TAURUS
Blood sings in my wrists as I crash into the cottage, slamming the door so hard the glass shivers in the frame. I’m burning with pain, adrenaline, bile, and purpose after listening to my wife. They’ve done a little decorating—or someone has. I grunt as I stomp on their rug, leaving a trail of red drops and muddy heel prints, tracking my rage through to the lounge area where they’re located.
I cannot fucking believe we’re doing this shit again.
There’s a wetness sliding down my arm that I’ve ignored. I glance and see the blood trickling from the mess I made of my knuckles on the mirrored wall I shattered before I left. It stings, but I hold my hand like a trophy, refusing to wince. The mirror never stood a chance against my wrath—shards hit the floor and I let them fall, didn’t even pick out the glass.
On the sofa, Sampson’s head is slung back, one long arm slung over a bare chest as he reclines. His mane is draped over the pillows, and the picture almost stops me in my place because it’s so indolent and hot. He’s half-awake, eyelids at half-mast, and I can taste his confusion at my entrance before he even says aword. Talia is sitting next to him, wrapped in a towel with her phone in hand and guilt like a fog around her. She’s not watching the TV he has on; she was waiting for me.
My goddess always knows when my emotions have flipped the switch to dangerous.
I step into the room, radiating fury from head to toe. “What did you do?!” I demand, but it’s not really a question—I already know.
Talia glances up, her eyes welling with tears immediately. “You’re bleeding,” she whispers, but I ignore her and keep moving toward them. My body is a weapon being aimed.
“Poison,” I say, stalking over to her. My lip curls and my teeth are bared. “You told her she’s poison. You broke her, and now you want to sit here and what, watch Netflix?”
My primary bites her lip, looking at the ground in shame. While I doubt that was her intent, she still hasn’t mastered speaking to my wife like a mate, not some bitchy woman she’s trying to filet. I love Talia, but she cannot keep doing this. It’s not fair to any of us if she can’t control her goddamn mouth when she’s with the cat. I just don’t get why she’s so bad at it.
Sampson rouses, sitting up as he looks between us. His heart is big and soft, but he looks ready to be hard if it comes to it. “What the fuck is your problem?” he says, voice gravelly with sleep and maybe scotch, too. “Storming in here like it’s a goddamn raid is bullshit, Simba.”
I get to Talia and yank her up from the sofa despite his chastisement. The towel slips, and she grabs it, cheeks flaming with anger as she glares at me. My grip is iron. She’s trying notto make a scene, but I want the scene. I want our shared mate to know just what she’s guilty of and why I’m this mad.
Talia stares at the floor, speaking to her toes. “I said something I shouldn’t have. I told her she was like poison to people.” She breaks off, pulling the towel tighter. “But I didn’t mean it, I?—”
“You never do,” I spit. “But that doesn’t matter because you sent her off to work this morning in that mind space, and then it just got worse. Did you check in to see if she was okay? No. Did you tell either of us? Also no. What did you think was going to happen?”
Sampson steps between us. “Let her go, Simba.” He’s inches from my face, breathing me in, chest to chest. I smell his salt and his anger, and almost want to kiss him, but I also want to break his nose for interrupting.
I hold Talia behind me, like a hostage. “I’m not here for you,” I tell him.
“Then what the hell are you here for?” he growls.
Talia bumps into my back, and I feel her shaking. Normally, I’d worry about that, but right now, I can’t feel sorry for her. She knew she fucked up majorly and allowed someone we all love to take off to risky situations without resolving the problem. It’s not only a failure as a family member, but if I squealed to Mikhail, it would be considered a serious breach of operational protocol. She’d get suspended at The Company for not reporting the emotional state of an agent headed into the field.
I square up to Sampson, letting the blood drip down my fingers. “You should ask her that, mate,” I say, voice honeyed and sharp as I grip Talia’s arm. “Ask her how much trouble she’s in and how much more she’d be in if anyone but us knew about this.”
Sampson’s eyes narrow, and he rolls his shoulders, making himself bigger. “Where the bloody hell are you dragging my wife off to, mate?”
“Why does that matter?” I snarl, curling my lip up. “What are you going to do about it?”
