Page 72 of Faith and Fury

NIGHTMARE?

I soften. So that’s what that sign meant. I’ll have to commit to memory.

“Just a little one,” I answer, quietly. “Nothing to worry about.”

She bristles like I’ve called her out. I suppress a smile. Of course. Our brave, lethal omega doesn’t worry about anything. If there’s a problem, she simply acts, or she walks away.

I look around, realizing I haven’t seen her crutches. “Hey,” I chastise, “don’t tell me you came all the way out here on that ankle?”

She chuffs.

“It’s fractured, angel. Can’t have you putting any weight on it.”

She grabs my wrist, writing a little higher up, DOESN’T HURT. Then, before I can argue, she underlines the first word—NIGHTMARE—and glares at me demandingly.

Heat springs to my cheeks. “Really, it’s no big deal. They’re not as bad as they used to be.”

Those eyes are unconvinced, flashing defiantly against the TV.

TELL ME, she writes.

I take a breath, once again not sure how much I want to say. How much she wants to hear. Just by being here, she’s given me so much—reminded me who I am, who I want to be, and everything I want to leave behind. Put me back in touch with my alpha. Made me feel … like I want to be someone again.

Like I want to be hers.

She deserves my honesty. But at the same time, she deserves someone who can be strong—who won’t fall apart after every bad dream.

I don’t realize my eyes are stinging until Faith puts her hand on my cheek. Her eyes scan mine, like she’s picking through my tears before they’ve even fallen.

My inner alpha lurches forward, making me press my forehead to hers. “I don’t know what I dreamed,” I say at last, so quiet I’m not even sure she can hear it. “I never do.”

I can feel, rather than see, the tightness in Faith’s brow.

“But—” my voice catches, “I know I was scared. Am scared, all the time.”

To this, her eyes open. I read the question there: Scared of what?

My head falls forward, wanting to pepper her in my scent. I know I must smell bitter, and pathetic—exactly how an alpha shouldn’t smell—but she tilts her neck ever-so-slightly. Inviting me.

I nuzzle her pulse, calming myself just enough to finally answer, “I guess, right now, I’m scared of what I have to lose.”

Faith finds her pen, writing on my bicep, YOUR PACKMATES?

“Not exactly. Jaxon and Caleb—we’re solid. Even if we don’t always see eye-to-eye, I trust them. Implicitly.”

THE RDF?

“Mm.” I smile grimly. “I lost that a long time ago. Not exactly a good look when their head psychiatrist has a mental breakdown. Caleb keeps saying he’ll bring me back in when I’m ready, but I’m sure he’s getting heat from the higher-ups. It’s only a matter of time before they find a permanent replacement.”

Faith scowls. THAT’S BULLSHIT.

I suppress a laugh. “Oh yeah?”

She keeps writing, the pen digging deeper and deeper into my arm. YOU’RE SMART. KIND. YOU GET PEOPLE. She scoffs. THEY’D BE FUCKED WITHOUT YOU.

It feels surreal reading those words—words marked into my own skin. I haven’t been able to look myself in a mirror and see any of these things for a long time.

But the next time I do, Faith’s writing will be there. Reminding me.

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