Page 74 of The Grief We Hold

Then he walks into the bathroom and closes the door.

It takes me a moment to process everything he said. He’s willing to take a bullet for me, while Marco just left me to those who’d hurt me.

He’ll take a test tomorrow to reassure me that there won’t be any risk of infection from his blood.

I feel stronger simply knowing he’s here.

On the table are two bags of food.

My son is reading happily, feeling safe.

And as I hear the rush of water hit the bath, I realize that, in spite of everything, I’m happy too.

24

WRAITH

My vision blurs, and I hiss in agony as the hot water rushes over my body. I slap my palms on the white shower tiles as I try to breathe through it.

Bloodstained water swirls the drain as I look down at the rust-spotted plug hole.

And I try to focus on what Smoke told me. That there’s a meeting at the clubhouse first thing in the morning, and my attendance is nonnegotiable. We’re going after the fuckers who would hurt us.

And I’m ready.

What I’m not ready for is to process why I leapt from my seat, running through bullet fire, to pull Raven to the ground. I didn’t raise my weapon. I didn’t fire back.

I did nothing except curl around Raven’s body with the singular thought of holding her close, creating safety in my own arms for her.

Feeling her shake fueled my anger with the fuckers outside, raining down fire on us. But it wasn’t enough to force me to my feet to participate in ending it.

Nothing could have made me let go of Raven until the last bullet was fired.

And there was no mistake who the body in my arms belonged to. I wasn’t having some mental break, where she became Hallie.

She was Raven. Every inch of her, from the scent of her shampoo to the way she felt pressed against me.

I hated leaving her to go see what I could learn about them.

I hated seeing her tearstained face.

I hated the way Fen looked terrified, and she looked devastated.

The pain starts to numb. The water runs clearer. But I know what I have to do. The bodywash on the side of the tub is citrus scented. Not a surprise given Raven always smells like a bowl of oranges. I pour a dollop between my hands, turn it to lather, take a deep breath, and wash my body and wounds.

The bite of pain starts all over again, but I bear it until I’m certain everything is as clean as I can get it.

Once done, I wash my hair and face and then turn the tap to cold.

Emotions are running high in me, an unusual state for someone who kills so easily.

Fear is a funny thing. I rarely feel it anymore. But the ache of it today is as intense as the cold water hitting my skin. I wasn’t scared for me. For two years I’ve hovered on thedieside of the living-versus-dying conundrum. Arguably, I’ve been dead inside since my family was murdered. But the fear that Raven would no longer exist drove my every decision in that diner.

I can’t put a label on what the two of us are.

In the scheme of relationships, we’re nothing. Two people whose bodies collided for one night.

And yet…

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