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Anger fills his face. “The people who killed them! How old were you?”
“Nine.”
“Nine? How the hell could you have done anything at nine?”
“I could have tried!”
“And then you’d be dead too!”
He doesn’t understand. I could have caught the men by surprise. I could have helped Dad overpower them. I could have grabbed my siblings and made them hide, but I only thought of myself.
“Stop that,” he snaps. “Stop that right now.”
“Stop what?”
“Blaming yourself. I know you are. So stop it.”
If only it were that easy.
Sasha stands, walking closer with slow and measured steps. “I want to hug you. Can I?”
It should be an easy enough question to answer, but my tongue is like lead. On the one hand, anyone touching me while I’m wired like this is too much. The thought of it feels suffocating. On the other hand … the ache in my chest needs to be held back together, and I don’t think I can manage it on my own.
He gives me another minute as he moves closer, and when he’s right in front of me, I reach for him. My hands are shaking, and I’m still unsure, but the second he feels my touch, his body smacks into mine. Sasha’s face buries into my chest, and his arms wrap so securely around me that my immediate impulse is to push him off again.
But I force myself to relax. To remind myself that touch is supposed to be good.
This is good. Nice.
I close my arms around him as well, and the tighter I hold him, the more I’m worried I’ll never be able to let go. His shampoo hits my nose, and I turn my face down to bury it in his hair, breathing deeply, cataloging all the ways he’s making me feel.
Because the more space Sasha takes up in my mind, the less room there is for memories.
And I’ll do anything to make them go away.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
SASHA
How can he do it? Just walk around acting normal when he went through what he went through. I’m in pain, and it didn’t even happen to me. There’s a small part of me that regrets asking, but so much about Lynx makes sense now, and I got what I wanted. I understand him. And now I want to be the one to put him in my pocket and protect him from the world.
The way he’s so determined to make sure his cubs can handle themselves, how dedicated he is to this town, how much he hates outsiders … it’s fucking traumatic. The worst part is that no one else knows, and it makes me irrationally angry at how Wilde treats Lynx like he’s an afterthought. An inconvenience. All I want to do is rage at him and tell him all the ways he’s being an asshole, but I won’t betray Lynx like that.
It just feels like such a crime that no one else knows how big his heart is.
He really does care about his pack, as much as he says he doesn’t, and it’s heartbreaking that he won’t let himself get close to them.
“Your bread is ready,” he says stiffly, and I don’t want to let him go, but I recognize the tone. He’s had enough. I’m not great at respecting people’s boundaries, but I force myself to let him have this one. He told me more than I ever dreamed he would, and I’m raw from hearing about it. I don’t know how he got those words out.
Later, when it’s dark and he’s sleeping, I know what he’s told me will haunt me. My hands are shaking, and I’m already actively not thinking about it, but it’s a struggle not to cry. I want to cry. But Lynx doesn’t need to be comforting me, and as easy as it would be to curl into a sobbing mess, I force the tears back. I can be strong for Lynx.
I take the bread out of the oven and turn it off, right as a clap of thunder sounds loudly over the house. Before my stupid mouth went and got involved, it was cozy in here. Peaceful. Now, I feel like I might be sick. It was easier to think of Lynx as some inhuman, unfeeling forest dweller. Now, I’m being tormented by the fact that he’s full of survivor’s guilt that he’s never been able to escape.
He ran away to the End, but the memories followed him here. And he spends every day trying to make up for something he thinks he did.
He was nine.
