“You scared me!”
Thunder rips through the night, and I cringe back against the counter. There’s no attempting normal. I’m in pain, on edge, and recovering from a jump scare.
Griffith’s anger turns into confusion as he takes in my defensive crouch. “I’m not going to hurt you. What the fuck?”
In a spine-breaking effort, I straighten. “I know.” My voice is breathless, as if I’d been running from the murderer I just assumed he was. “It’s the storm.”
Griffith, still rubbing his forehead, glances toward the rain-drenched windows. “Still have nightmares during them?”
He refers to my nighttime fits like he knows. Like he was there when I woke up sobbing, clutching at my blankets, searching for something I could never recall. Inconsolable until morning. I guess Carl was forthcoming about all issues he dealt with related to me.
But can I blame him?
My brother was too young to take on the role of dad, much less to a self-destructive teenager. How can I begrudge him talking about the struggles with his best friend?
“I wasn’t. Having a nightmare.” Which is true. Therapy helped. “But it was storming the night this happened.” I wave at my side. “I think that might be what has me in fight-or-flight mode. Piled on old anxiety.”
Despite the storm causing my panic, it was also the only reason I made it out alive from my hunter encounter. Merfolkcan manipulate water, and I shot the pouring droplets straight into my attackers’ eyes during the fight, giving myself enough of an advantage to land a few blows.
“What old anxiety?”
Damn, I said more than I’d meant to.
My initial urge is to tell him to mind his own business. But something about bludgeoning him with my water glass has me thinking that maybe I owe Griffith a touch of honesty.
“My parents,” I admit. “The night after they left, there was a thunderstorm.”
After that, every time lightning struck, so did bad dreams. I could only fall asleep once Carl unrolled a sleeping bag on the floor of my room. I’d let my hand dangle over the side of the bed, and he’d hold it in his. With that, I could sleep.
Then, the next morning, I would pretend like nothing had happened.
Never thanked him.
Gods, I’m such an ungrateful bitch.
Guilt tears at my stomach worse than the wound in my side.
Carl would be better off without me. I never should have come back.
“Don’t say that,” Griffith snarls, which is when I realize I spoke out loud. “What would you have done instead? Kept running until that wound killed you? Or until a hunter found you and did it themselves?” The wolf stalks closer to me, fire in his eyes. “You think that’s a better outcome? You think losing you wouldn’t fucking wreck him?”
“What then? It’s better for him to watch me die up close?” My tight voice is just above a whisper, but of course his werewolf ears pick it up.
Griffith pinches my chin, tilting my face up until I can’t avoid his eyes. “You’re not dying on my watch.”
“You don’t get to decide.”
“The fuck I don’t.”
Our breaths mingle, and another roll of thunder fills the kitchen. But caged in by Griffith, I don’t have the instinctive urge to cringe in fear. In his arms, I feel safe.
“You’re a cocky shit,” I tell him, no true bite in my voice.
His smile is half snarl. “And you’re a violent piece of work. But I guess that does it for me.”
My eyes widen at what he just insinuated.
Griffith huffs a laugh, presses a barely there kiss to my forehead, then steps back and strips off his shirt.
