Page 200 of Traitor

"How?" she asks, genuine, no challenge in her tone.

I clench my fists. My knee starts bouncing. "I don't fucking know, doc. I'd go for a ride, drink, hit the gym. Find something to do until it passes."

She watches me carefully. "So your solution would be to distract yourself. Push it down. Ride it out until Temper comes back to pull you out of it."

"Yeah. I guess."

Dr. Monroe leans forward slightly. "Bones, healing can't be just about Temperance. You're putting everything on her shoulders — the responsibility of your peace, your ability to function when the guilt is heavy. That's not fair to her, and it's not fair to you either. Because if you don't find a way to handle it yourself, then that guilt still owns you."

I breathe in deep through my nose, trying to let that settle. But fuck, I don't like what she's saying. It makes sense. Too much sense.

"You need to forgive yourself," she says softly.

My head snaps up, eyes locking onto hers. My chest goes tight, breath short. "I can't do that."

"It's not easy, but it's necessary. You can't rewrite the past, Bones. You can't undo what happened. You can't change that you hurt her. And you can't change that she decided to give you a chance. Butyouhaven't given yourself a chance. You're still punishing yourself for it."

I run a hand over my face. My skin feels hot, like I'm boiling from the inside out.

"Ishouldbe punished," I grit out. "What I did to her—"

"She doesn't want you to suffer. Not anymore, at least," Dr. Monroe cuts in gently. "She wants you to move forward with her. You think holding on to the guilt means you're proving something to her? It doesn't. Your guilt is not redemption. It's self-destruction. It's just keeping you shackled to a past that she is trying to move on from. You're the only one dragging yourself back to it."

I shake my head. "It's not that simple."

"I know," she agrees easily. "But you have to start somewhere. Because this weight you're carrying? It's not making you a better man. It's not making you more worthy of her. It's just hurting you. And that's not what she wants."

I press my elbows onto my knees and let my head hang for a moment, exhaling hard. My mind is spinning, clawing for something to hold on to.

"How do I start?" My voice is low, rough.

"By recognizing that guilt is just a feeling. It's not a prison sentence. It doesn't define you. You're more than your worst mistake, Bones. And if you can't see that for yourself yet, then start by trusting her. She sees it. She chooses you. Every single day. The least you can do is try to see what she sees."

I close my eyes for a long moment. Try to picture what she sees.

It's fucking hard.

But for Temper, I'll try.

I scrub a hand down my face, exhaling sharply. "Alright, doc. What do I do next?"

Dr. Monroe smiles. "We start small. One step at a time."

Yeah. One step at a time.

For her.

For me.

For us.

Therapy with Dr. Monroe is illuminating, sure. But I've got my own brand of therapy, too.

Four months. That's how long I've been sitting through weekly sessions with the doc, listening, talking, unpacking the weight I've been carrying. And I bet she'd be horrified to know how the therapy sessions whereI'mthe one running the show look like. How I really deal with the darkness when it rises. Because sometimes, talking doesn't cut it. Sometimes, you just need some fucking blood.

Right now, I'm walking toward The Fun House, and I can feel it — the thrum in my veins, the beast stretching awake inside me. I don't have much time for this. I'm meeting Temper in a few hours. But fuck if I'm not going to enjoy it.

Lucas Hall is my toy today.

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