Page 102 of Peacock Me Like a Hurricane

He does not understand how much I try to keep the insanity away from him and keep my own issues from affecting him. Having it thrown in my face was painful.

My nose rubs against his neck as I nod; I inhale his scent as my fingers clutch the tiny scrap in my hands, feeling calmer than I have in hours. “I know they upset you. I was trying to be honest with you and let you know why I was late. I am sensitive about being grouped with the people who are less than healthy in behavior. I try to keep a lid on my crazy.”

His arms wrap around me and he buries his face in my hair. “It was a bloody miserable night. I felt so sodding alone.”

That’s a feeling I know well. I stayed here because it terrified me to miss his return.

I paced, I cried, I yelled, I tossed and turned—what I did not do is feel like I had anyone who could understand. I didn’t contact Rafe. I couldn’t explain in a way that he would understand; I had to go it alone. “I slept a grand total of two hours before you got here,” I murmur. “I itched all night. Aradia came to sleep with me, but she got annoyed and took off.” I chuckle.

Rubbing his cheek against mine, he says, “I don’t think I’d like to have another night like that any time in the foreseeable future. My family wasn’t exactly—sympathetic. They’re not likely to be when I’ve been a git, so I got no comfort there at all.” Helets go of me for a moment, slipping under the covers to snuggle. I slide over and curl up against him, eyes closing as I sigh. “I couldn’t even kill my breakfast, sod it all. It was pathetic,” he grumbles.

I smile a little at that image. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here and we’re okay.” I nuzzle his neck then nip his mark. I should push this more because I need him to understand why he should be more careful. However, I’m so fucking glad he’s back that I can’t make myself kick up more dust right now.”

Groaning, he clutches me to him. “Christ, you feel good.”

I purr, the rumble low and thrumming. “You do, too.”

His hand slides over my hair, and I lean in, sighing in contentment.

Suddenly, his brows furrow. “It sounds like the terror twins are up to tricks again; the goddess wants me to warn you since she’s having a conversation right now. When she comes out of the sodding room for breakfast for the first time, this happens.”

I look over at the night table, floating my phone up and squinting at it. There are at least ten messages stacking up on the lock screen and the words ‘trouble’, ‘love’, and ‘blame’ are a common theme. “Well, looks like if I were paying attention, I’d be getting my own lectures.”

“Why are they texting you? You are mates. Why don’t they split your skull like the goddess does to me?”

I shrug, trying to downplay this as much as possible, because it’s a peek into the insanity of my life and could lead to topics I am not ready for and after last night? I know he is ALSO not ready for this shit. “I have to kind of… explain to you what things look like inside my—inner sanctum, we’ll say.”

“Isn’t that the name of a comic book guy’s house?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not averse to you thinking I’m that powerful, but no.” I pinch him and smile. “Inside me, there are a lot of places—more than a normal person because even beforethe Beast, my magick has needed space, and this is how I could manage all the lines.”

He gives me a skeptical look but stays quiet.

“Picture a large room like in an old marble library in Europe. In the center is the ‘eternal flame’ as we’ll ever so dramatically call it. That’s my spirit, soul, and fire—whatever. Around that atrium, there are doors to where my magick lives, the Beast, my human side, and mating bonds. Open one: find a part of me that connects to the flame. Inside, there are floor to ceiling cabinets that look like old-style card catalogs. I label every drawer that is filled with memories, thoughts, feelings, etc. Some things get sealed because they need to be. Some are easy to open. When I need to, I lock the doors and cut off the connection to the flame. Sometimes for my sanity, sometimes for self-protection, and sometimes in anger. I can do it with just about anything because one door represents the rest of the Universe and that one, I had to learn to clamp off.”

His eyes narrow. “One door is me?”

I nod. “It is. I don’t quite have control of that one yet. It’s difficult.” His expression wars between pleased and irritated, so I go on. “Months ago, I started filing things away in particular mates’ rooms. I learned to seal the door fully, partially, and with our exes, cut the cord so that it feels withered and dead.”

“Dead?”

I give him a shrug. “I’m a witch, love. You can’t imagine that these rooms and corridors and everything aren’t full of nature and life and emotions and impressions—cutting it off from my life force has made it look like the door to Hades. I can’t help that. It needed to happen, and I needed to store the ache somewhere where it wouldn’t make me insane. You know the stories.”

“What about your primary?” he asks.

“He has his own room. I store his things.” He looks like he’s about to ask a question and I shake my head. “Not for discussion. Witches I’ve consulted say that they don’t know anyone who compacts their inner being the way I do. Between that, the emotional turmoil here, the Beast, the magick, cloaking the Resistance, holding his stuff, and everything else? It explains why I require feeding and the amount of feeding needed has increased. I need life force energy. As my magick grows stronger and I renew with the Earth more often, that will make it easier.”

“The reason you’re telling me therefore is that theyhaveto text you? They can’t use their bond because you’ve clamped it?”

“Yes. I have for a while now. I didn’t feel they needed access to things that were not their business, and I cannot trust them to stay away. It has made for some interesting conversations, Rafe says. He’s done his best to downplay it.”

“The phone buzzes again and I raise the lights a smidge with my mind, looking at the screen with a snarl. Bullshit arguments, pleas, accusations: the full circle of the ‘why aren’t you paying attention to me’ game that the two of them play. I’m sure that the next step will be them getting someone else to poke at me, too.

Why the hell isn’t he focused on the person sitting at his goddamned table right now?

“Right then,” he says, closing his eyes, looking like he’s concentrating. I hear doors slam one after another and the air feels dense. Breathing heavily, he drops back against the pillows.

Tilting my hand, I try to sense the change. “What did you do, baby?”

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