Page 97 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

I listen to every horrible, awful thing he was put through, and I break for him. The little boy who had never deserved the terror he’d witnessed. No one should be forced to become a monster to survive.

“I killed Conner, didn’t I?”

It’s the only option that makes sense. Thatcher had been at the prison, and I know Godfrey showed up at the cabin. I didn’t create that in my imagination. Had I become a monster in order to survive too?

“Yes, Little Miss Death. You did.” He leans back into me, turning his head so that the bridge of his nose rubs against my cheek. “Do you remember it?”

I shake my head. “No. It’s all foggy. I don’t know how I ended up in my bed or how long I slept. It fades to black after I found him in the living room.”

“Sometimes, I think, we go through certain things so horrendous that our brain does its best to protect us from reliving it.” His lips brush my skin. “Do you want me to tell you what I saw?”

“Yes.” I dip my head into the crook of his neck. “But not tonight.”

I lay a kiss on his shoulder, tightening my grip and inhaling the smell of him. Tonight, I just want to be with him. I don’t want to think or worry about what will happen when we leave this room.

In here, he’s mine, and I’m his.

The end.

In here, we get our happily ever after.

“Can I ask you a question, Lyra?”

I nod, pulling back so that he can turn his body to face me. My eyebrows furrow, concerned. Thatcher is always sure of himself; he doesn’t ask questions. He just does.

But I can tell whatever he wants to say is making him uncomfortable.

“I—” He stops, his throat working as he finds the words. “I feel things sometimes, I think. They’re these physical reactions to certain situations, but I can never identify them.”

He’d been conditioned so long he can’t even tell what his emotions are. Thatcher lived most of his life killing and shutting out feelings—of course he doesn’t know what they feel like.

“Okay, so tell me what they feel like to you.”

A deep V creases his forehead. “What do you mean?”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. It’s a little funny that the know-it-all is so lost.

“When you woke up from your dream and realized it was me beneath you. What did it feel like?”

He grabs one of my curls, twirling his finger around the strand and tugging slightly.

“It felt wet. Slippery, like raindrops on clothed skin,” he answers candidly.

“Sadness, sorrow, despair,” I tell him, trying to think about what they feel like for me. “It varies depending on how hard the rain is. Give me another one.”

“Fizzling. Bubbles floating around in my stomach. I felt it when you gave me the digital piano. It’s a constant popping.”

I smile, wide and bright. “Happiness.”

We do this, back and forth, for a while. Him explaining what each of these feelings is and me trying to identify them. We talk for hours, shifting around the bed multiple times. At one point, his head is in my lap, and then later, I’m resting against the wall while he rubs my feet.

We glide and float, filling the gaps of our relationship. All of those little things no one thinks about but end up being the most important. If I could, I’d stay here forever with him, just like this.

At some point, he finds himself on top of me, his large body spreading my legs open, head resting against my chest as I massage his scalp. It’s a slow progression, how our hands start roaming and bodies become alive until his hands hold my cheeks, cradling me in his grasp before he kisses me. I fall into the way his mouth moves with mine. I push up into him, chasing the taste of him. He groans against my lips, pulling back just enough to mutter a few words.

His hands slip beneath my shirt—well, his technically—and I feel his palms expand across my ribs, traveling upward. Our tongues are desperate lovers, caressing, rolling, dancing. I moan as he settles between my legs, the smooth material of his boxers rubbing against my inner thighs.

My hands tug on his shoulders, pulling him further against me. I want the entire weight of him against me, pressed into me, merging so that there is no corner untouched, tangled together like ivy.

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