‘Flint.’
“Not now, Calida.”
‘But Flint–’
“Really, Calida. Not now.”
‘FLINT! Is she okay?’
“She’ll be fine. She needs some time alone right now, that’s all.”
Calida hangs her head, sadly.
Fuck. Tonight, I have more than one female that needs taking care of.
Lifting my head from my hands, I spread my arms in welcome. Calida wastes no time in scooting onto my lap, and laying her head on my shoulder.
“Why don’t you go out for a flight?” I suggest, pettingher and wrapping her in a soothing spell to calm her nerves. “The fresh air will make you feel better and by the time you get back, she’ll be done in the shower and we’ll all be ready to settle in. I’ll order something for dinner.”
‘If you’re sure…’
"I am. Everything will be okay. I promise.”
Calida takes me at my word, making her way to the window and taking off into the night. Thankfully, it’s dark enough that no one should notice her easily. I have enough problems right now.
I go to the kitchen and put the pot on the stove for Ash’s tea. I hear the shower kick on and hope it means that she’s actually getting in it. Water has always soothed her in a way very few things do.
Knowing she is otherwise engaged, I step out of the apartment and into the hallway. I run down the stairs and out the front of the building. Despite the relatively early hour, there’s no one on the street. Closing my eyes, I allow a fraction of my rage to flow out of me and into the world.
Cracks appear in the sidewalk at my feet, spider webbing the concrete. The streetlights flare, some of the bulbs bursting in a shower of sparks. Calling on the bit of wind that’s mine to draw on, I make a bubble around myself. Once I feel the circle lock in place, I roar. I roar out the absolute, soul searing rage. The terror of seeing my female,mine,hurt. The disgust that there are men like him, in every world, thinking they can take what they want and damn the consequences. The guilt for not being there when she needed me. The possibility of all he could have cost us — her, me, our people… I roar until I feel my vocal cords rupture.
The look of terror on her face and then blankness. The restraint it took to not dismember him on the spot for causing her even an ounce of fear.
Walking into the bookstore, I sensed something was wrong even before I made it to the kitchen. Seeing the look on her face… I wanted to tear him, limb from limb with my bare hands. In this place, at this time, it would have caused more problems than it solved. Especially for her. So I settled for tying his balls in a knot and humiliating him while my female, my one, myeverythingsat on the floor, like a broken doll.
Part of me wanted, so badly, in that moment to allow my baser instincts to guide me and burn him to ash with the fire that’s mine.
That limp dick, rapist piece of shit almost cost both of us everything.
I brushed against her mind in the few seconds it took me to cross the room and throw him off of her. A few moments, nothing more. But those few moments were enough to look and, more,to know.
That was all I needed. I could see the images of Goira playing in her mind. Of our spot by the river. Of battle.
He could have cost useverything.
I continue to roar. I feel my Fae healing kick in, repairing the damage, as my throat continues to rupture. The cycle continuing while I unleash as much of the wrath as I’m able.
It feels like hours pass as I settle for this purge of my own feelings. It’s not enough. I want flesh and bone under my fists. I want tofeelthe pieces of him breaking. I want the scent of his blood staining the air. It’s not enough, but it has to be, for now. I need to get back to Ash. I need to be there.
I spit blood on the sidewalk, the only evidence of the damage I’ve self inflicted.
I let the air fall away and survey the damage I’ve wrought in the neighborhood. I drag my hands through my hair and sigh. I call on what I have of earth and persuade it to mend the sidewalk. Unfortunately, I can do nothing about the lights, so hopefully the city people will chalk it up to a power surge.
With one last deep breath, I head back to the apartment.
The kettle is screaming when I enter. I hurry through making the tea and, just as I place a mug on the table, the bathroom door opens. Steam billows out and the love of all my lives appears.
She’s wearing the warm flannel sleep pants I know she prefers, her long hair wrapped in a towel. Rather than the worn band tee I left her, she’s wearing one of the shirts Betsy purchased on my behalf. The sight causes a lump to form in my throat. She used to do this. The woman had enough clothes to clothe the continent, but she preferred to sleep in my clothes, claiming that they were roomier and made her feel safe.
