Siren looks at me as I pet my tiger soothingly. Looking into her eyes, I nod a little, and her expression is inscrutable as she whispers, “Baptism.”
Starting anew, something special reborn: it’s almost enough to give a girl a sliver of hope.
Yeah, I guess you could call it a baptism, and we’ve all just been dunked.
The Bird Storms In and The Cat Is Patient
DELILAH
Ihear the boots first, echoing off the hardwood like the house is hollow-boned. Taurus always walks as if the universe has offended him and he’d like to stomp it out. I’m lying on the long couch in the bedroom, the one with a gouge along the leg from when Taurus threw me into it when we were feral and hungry one time.
Our family history is written in bruises, scars, and pain—though the shared part isn’t the bad kind. Mostly.
He hits the foyer like a bomb, slams the door with a level of force calculated to shake the picture frames. For a split second he just stands there breathing heavily, his silhouette a slab of black against the etched glass. I sit up slowly, like maybe I can figure out how to calm him before he explodes.
No such luck.
My husband comes into the room, and the weight of his fury makes the air tight. The duster goes first, ripped off and winged across the arm of the nearest chair, where it lands in a heap likea dead animal. It’s got bloodstains on the lining. There’s a bullet hole above the left breast pocket, stitched with dental floss from a recent mission. His lack of fussiness about his favorite item should have clued me in that he’s struggling as much as I am.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye, fingers tracing the blackened tips of my fingers that just won’t heal. The smell of burning and storms still clings to me almost a week after my blowout. I can’t seem to get it to go away, no matter how much I shower. Taurus glances at my hands, but doesn’t comment. His feelings on my fresh scars have been made clear many times.
“You’re home early,” I say, but it’s more of a defensive maneuver than a greeting.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he yanks off his boots and throws them at the wall. One ricochets, scuffing the paint, and the other lands with a thud next to the Aradia’s bowl.
She surely did nothing wrong, and I’ll kick his ass if he upsets her after the blanket fiasco.
The silence is crawling over my skin. I want to tear it open just to see what spills out, but I’m too damaged to seek more pain. Taurus sits across from me, legs spread wide, elbows on his knees, and his head bowed like he’s auditioning for a crucifixion.
“Did something happen?” I ask. Someone has to speak, and it’s obviously not going to be him.
My mate lifts his head, and his eyes catch mine, lit with the golden hue of his demon. “You could say that.”
That’s it—no elaboration, no warmth, and no softness.
I clench my fingers, feeling the stutter in my nerves from all the anxiety and pressure I’m under. My hands haven’t stoppedshaking since the thunderstorm. I’m not supposed to use my powers, not until I get my synapses back in line, but nobody can enforce that decree. I’ll do what I need to if it helps me get by.
He scrubs his hands over his face and leans back, staring at the ceiling as his jaw works like he’s chewing rocks. My husband is so gorgeous that it hurts to look at him sometimes, but more so when he’s angry and I can’t help. It’s like all the sculpted perfection of his face turns to a mask of fury that the Greeks could have created as a warning from the gods.
I can’t take it anymore. “Are we going to talk about what made you pissy, or are you just gonna sit there radiating contempt?”
He grins, slow and sharky. “Maybe I enjoy radiating contempt. It’s soothing.”
“Yeah, well, you’re making me want to stab myself in the eye, so that’s not gonna work for me.”
He snorts. “You’ve been feeling that way for two weeks. No change detected, wife.”
A sad laugh escapes me, involuntary and raw. “Touche.”
He looks at my hands again, his eyes roaming over the places where the skin is charred. “You gonna heal that ever?”
I flex. “Maybe. Otherwise, I’ll just become a cautionary tale for why you don’t let unstable girls play with lightning.”
His face twitches as if he wants to scold me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he glances toward the bay window, noting the dreary atmosphere outside. He sighs. “Have you eaten today?”
I shake my head. “Not hungry.”
“You never are lately.” He stands and paces to the bar. I hear the clink of a glass, and when he comes back, he’s drinking out of one. No glass, just full-on tossing back his expensive scotch like a dive bar regular.
