Page 120 of Honeyfires

"Why are you apologizing?" The question came out broken, confused. "I'm the one who snapped at you."

"Because you're hurting and I can't fix it." Her voice cracked on the last word. "Because I love you and I want to make this better and I can't."

All the anger and fear and humiliation that had been building since I'd walked out of that station came pouring out, and suddenly I was crying, too.

"I'm sorry," I rasped. "I'm so sorry. You're the only good thing in my life right now and I almost—"

"Shh." Her hands came up to frame my face, her thumbs wiping away tears. "I'm not going anywhere. I told you—you don't get to push me away. I won't let you."

I looked at her through blurred vision, this woman who'd somehow seen past all my sharp edges and jagged pieces and decided I was worth loving anyway. Her eyes were red from crying, her cheeks flushed, her hair slightly messy from burying her face against my neck. She looked so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her.

"I love you," I said, because it was the only truth I had left. "God, Vera, I love you so much."

"I love you too." She leaned in, her lips finding mine in a kiss that tasted like salt and forgiveness. "So much, baby. So, so much."

The kiss deepened, shifting from gentle to desperate. I needed her closer, needed to feel something other than the crushing weight of failure and shame. My hands found her waist, pulling her onto my lap, and she came willingly, straddling me without breaking the kiss.

"Petra," she breathed against my mouth, and the way she said my name made heat coil low in my belly, chasing away the cold dread that had settled there.

"Need you," I said roughly, my hands sliding up her back, feeling the delicate knobs of her spine through her thin sweater. "Please, Vera. I just need—"

"I know." Her hands were in my hair now, tugging gently, sending sparks of pleasure through my scalp. "I know what you need."

Dinner was forgotten. The burned-out homes and the news coverage and the suspension—all of it faded into background noise as Vera kissed me with a consuming intensity that made the rest of the world disappear. Her hands moved to the hem of my shirt, fingers skating across bare skin, and I gasped into her mouth.

I stood without breaking the kiss, my hands under her thighs, supporting her weight easily. She wrapped her legs around my waist, her arms around my neck, trusting me completely to carry her. The walk to our bedroom felt both endless and far too short, and when I laid her down on our bed, she looked up at me with eyes darkened with want and love and absolute faith.

"Show me," she whispered, reaching for me. "Show me that you're still here. That we're still us."

I captured her mouth again, losing myself in the taste of her, in the soft sounds she made, in the way her body arched into mine. Outside, the world thought I was a villain. Inside these walls, I was just Petra, flawed and broken and desperately in love with the woman beneath me.

It was the only thing holding me together.

They Made Sure to Mention That. Again.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Three days of house arrest. Self-imposed, but house arrest nonetheless.

Three days of watching the news coverage loop endlessly, each repetition carving deeper grooves into my psyche. Three days of refreshing social media like some kind of masochist, reading comments from people who'd never met me but knew with absolute certainty that I was reckless, dangerous, a disgrace to the uniform. Three days of Vera trying to coax me into eating, into sleeping, into being something other than this hollow shell that kept replaying every decision, every moment, searching for the exact second where I could've done something different.

We were out of food. Of course we were. I'd been so consumed by my spiral that I hadn't noticed we were down to half a loaf of bread and some questionable leftovers.

"I'll go," Vera said, already reaching for her purse.

"No." The word came out too sharply and I immediately regretted it. I softened it with a sigh. "I can't hide forever."

She looked at me with those enormous eyes full of concern and doubt, her hand frozen halfway to her bag. "Petra, you don't have to—"

"Yes, I do." I stood, my legs protesting after three days of doing nothing but pacing and sitting and lying awake. "I can't be a prisoner in my own home. We need groceries. I'll get groceries."

"Then I'm coming with you."

"Vera—"

"Not up for debate." She grabbed her cardigan from the back of the chair, that soft Antique Bridal Whisper one from what felt like a lifetime ago, the one she’d been wearing the day I’d kissed her at the library for the very first time. "You're not doing this alone."

Part of me wanted to argue. Part of me wanted to prove I could face the world without needing her protection. But a larger part, the part that had learned to accept love even when I didn't think I deserved it, was just grateful she was there.