Page 69 of Fearless

Fingertips tap my jaw.

I surface from the black pool of memories I’d been wallowing in, coming face to face with the man who had just plunged me under and held me there until I’d almost drowned in that black ink.

I used to get angry when I thought about losing her. Anger quickly changed into depression. Trish prescribed me meds, and they balanced me out.

But now I don’t feel so balanced anymore. Those scales? One side rises while the other is slowly sinking. And I know what’ll happen when it hits the bottom.

Same thing that always does.

Death crooks a skeletal finger and, intrigued at everything He offers, I wander ever closer and closer. Who will pull me back? There’s no one left to talk sense into me. That was Dad’s job, and he’s nowhere near.

All I have is Cillian, and he’s just as broken as I am. The man doesn’t feel a thing.

Cillian, who’s watching me like he doesn’t understand where I went, and why not all of me came back again.

Yeah, welcome to my world.

I expect a thousand things from him then, but I don’t expect his next question.

“Did you like your fort?”

For a moment, I have no idea what he’s talking about. He cocks his head to the side, pointing behind us. “That mess you made with the blankets, your little hidey-hole.”

“The one you destroyed?” My voice should have been bitter. Instead, it just sounds tired. Resigned.

“Aye,” he murmurs, shifting his weight and creating space between our bodies. “Do you want me to build a better one for you?”

I stare up at him? Do I? I don’t know.

He doesn’t wait for my answer. He slinks off the bed like a cat, and I should be glad about that.

But I’m not.

I already miss his warmth.

Without him, it would be too easy to succumb to the cold.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CILLIAN

She didn’t peach me. Well, she did, but we’re a bit too fucking far down the road for that now. She didn’t peach meagain, is what I mean.

But I’m beginning to think I know when a peach is necessary with her.

So I’m giving her space without giving hertoomuch space. Without abandoning her completely. I’m sweating my arse off rearranging the room while she sits on the bed watching me.

Because if she’s watching me, she’s not thinking about that scar. At least that’s the best logic I can come up with.

Me and Cole had a fort when we were younger, but it was more effective at keeping the bad shit out than this thing.

We had one of those mid-level cabin beds that we shared, with the drawers and the pull-out desk normal kids would have used for homework. You could pull the desk out, crawl under, and slip into the space behind the drawers. Sometimes we’d steal a bar of chocolate and a can of cola from the shop, take it back to the fort and hide there for the weekend. We never lasted the full weekend of course, but we planned to.

We made lots of plans in that fort.Colemade a lot of plans in that fort.

We’d build ones like this too, all flimsy and useless. But they were just for fun, not protection. My old man would have torn a thing like this down easier than I did last night.

The couch is in position at the foot of the bed. I just need the bedcovers and pillows, but she’s still sitting there and I can’t work out if this is working or not.

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