Page 59 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

The world has already shown me so much darkness, has given Thatcher more misery than one person should carry. I’d plead to whatever God I needed to for us to have a soft ending. A quiet one that requires nothing other than peace.

It is both a blessing and a curse knowing him.

It’s more dangerous now. The stakes are raised after every layer I peel back. The closer I get to him, the more I will have to lose at the end of this.

I stare at his back, the way he moves, and my heart sighs.

Please, I think,let us have the ending we deserve. It doesn’t even need to be happy. I just need it to have him.

“I can hear how hard you’re thinking,” he says, sliding a plate of steaming food in front of me, icy blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “Care to share what’s got you so perplexed?”

“I’ve never had a home-cooked meal before,”I say abruptly, which may not be what I was thinking of, but it’s not a lie. “It’s a first for me.”

Thatcher rests his hands on the edge of the island just in front of me, a smirk on his lips. “You can add it to the list of firsts I’ve stolen from you, then.”

Warmth spreads across my stomach.

I try to ignore the blush on my cheek as I pick up the fork and stab a piece of chicken. “My mother was an awful cook. It’s one of the things I distinctly remember about her. That and the smell of burnt popcorn.”

Thatcher’s food is exactly as I imagined it to be. Fucking delicious. I don’t think there is anything he does poorly.

“Tell me about her.” He leans on his elbows in front of me, the muscles in his shoulders flexing.

I swallow. “My mom?”

He nods, twirling pasta around his fork before looking up at me just as he takes a bite.

“Why?”

“You’re not the only one intrigued by someone in this room, Lyra.”

It’s usually me interrogating him, forcing him to open up so I can learn all the things that make him up. I’m not used to being the one someone knows, and I think that’s because I never wanted anyone to know me.

Not really.

I’m a ghost because I choose to be. It was always easier than sharing pieces of yourself.

“She was…” I trail off, trying to find all the words to describe my mother to someone who never knew how incredibly special she was. “There was never a dull moment. I know a lot of kids hate being homeschooled, but I loved spending time with her. She helped me catch ladybugs, took me to work with her and let me feed all the animals that freaked people out. I remember her being strict but still letting me eat dessert first.”

The sudden hunger for something sweet makes my mouth water. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, knowing this is the first time in a long time I’ve spoken out loud about her.

“She never tried to make me into anything. There was no expectation of being anyone else. Whatever I became, she would have loved me for.”

I feel a teardrop slip down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away with my sleeve, smiling softly at Thatcher, who is watching with an expressionless gaze.

“I was obsessed with this butterfly dress when I was little. It was purple and had monarchs all over it. I wore it nonstop for months on end, and she washed it for me every night.”

“You miss her,” he says, carefully raising his thumb to dry my tears. It’s so casual, like he does it all the time. The soft stroke of his skin against mine coaxes me into his touch.

“Very much.” I lean into him, curling my fingers around his wrist. “I saved all of them for you, you know?”

He raises his eyebrow. “Butterfly dresses?”

“No.” I huff out a laugh. “My firsts. I saved them for you.”

Realization sparks in his eyes, and before I can say anything else, he moves the plates out of the way and grabs my hips, hauling me towards him. My knees are touching his chest, and he’s looming over me.

“I think…” He trails off for a moment, as if to search for the right words. “I think I saved all my firsts for you too.”

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