Page 15 of Season of the Wolf

His hand was warm when I took it, tracing the dark ink of a tattooed compass on the back of it as more tears soaked the collar of my shirt.

“This can’t be how it ends, Liam. You said we had forever,” I reasoned. “And I believed you.”

The tears transitioned from sad to angry, washing down my face with heat and fury.

“I believed you,” I whispered.

It was futile to be livid with an unconscious man, but I was. My happiness was solely wrapped up in him. It was unhealthy, I know, but it hadn’t been a choice. My heart wanted what it wanted … and my heart wanted him.

“You’re not allowed to leave me,” I sobbed.

In one last hopeless attempt to feel the closeness we used to share, I brought his hand to my chest, placing it over my heart, where our tether once linked me to him. The warmth of his palm made more tears swell in my eyes, spilling over my lower lids when I closed them.

Even with him resting in some distant place, I could still feel his love. That’s how powerful it was. If Hilda was right, how was I ever supposed to let that go? Convince myself to keep pressing ahead without it?

At the thought, my heart beat even more wildly, causing my pulse to vibrate at the base of my neck. I was overwhelmed with grief—over what could have been, over wasted love.

Standing there, I let it all pour from me like a volcano erupting for the first time in millennia. I was so full, holding it in for fear of having to accept that things might never get better. But I wouldn’t hold it in anymore.

My heart thumped against his palm—hard, wild.

I let him feel me, the pain losing him would cause. I let my guard down and stopped fighting so hard to bridle these fierce emotions that had my entire life frozen in time—pining over him, waiting.

I let him feel everything

… And that’s when it happened.

That’s when movement pulsed in his fingers.

My eyes sprang open only to land on hazel ones slowly blinking back in response.

I couldn’t move, thinking I might wake up from the dream if I did. This had to be that, a dream. Quivering breaths breezed across my lip as I did all I could to stave off hyperventilation.

His hand at the center of my chest moved again, gently gathering the material of my shirt in his fingers as the grogginess seemed to make it hard to focus, to get his bearings.

“I’m here,” I whispered, unable to speak much louder than that. “I’m here.”

At the sound of my voice, a bit of awareness seemed to return and he settled down a bit.

I was ravished by so many thoughts, all at once.

Was I dreaming?

Did this mean he’d be okay?

Should I call for help?

Had this transition changed more than just his physical body?

… Would he remember me?

My first impression of him, months ago when he stepped out of my dreams, was that he, in all his beauty and intensity, was impossible. Someone like him, someone so unimaginably perfect for me, couldn’t possibly exist.

Today, as my fingers slipped between his, I had that same feeling.

It’d been too long—too long since I stared at him and he actually stared back.

Too long since I felt his arms around me.

---