Page 63 of Seeking Shadows

“I missed you too. Now, let’s get you home,” I say, and he looks at me like I’m the most precious thing in the world.

Drunk Zane is an event.

As I walk with him, he turns me toward him, his eyes teary and full of sadness.

“Why did you leave me?” he asks, his voice broken.

"I…”

I’m so taken aback by the question that I can’t form a response.

“I… I can’t function without you. I need you… I’d rather die than live without you. I love you, please don’t leave me, okay?” His words hit me harder than I expected, and a part of me breaks open.

His words shatter something deep inside me, and a part of my heart gives way. I’ve always known, deep down, that Zane—Mitchell, in his disguise—was the man I needed by my side.

Even though our lives are dangerous, twisted, and full of sacrifices, I can’t imagine living without him.

And that "I love you" still hangs in the air. He never confirmed my words. Maybe because he isn’t ready to admit it to himself yet. Maybe he isn’t ready to say it, so I leave it unsaid.

I look at him with softly teary eyes and say, my voice soft but firm, “I am your wife, Zane. I always have been.”

CHAPTER 13

ZANE

12 YEARS OLD

My head poundsin time with my heartbeat as I lean back on my knees, trying to catch my breath. The court spins for a moment, the distant laughter of my teammates blending with Abby’s soft voice, closer now.

“Zane, I’m sorry.”

I look up at my friend, who’s staring at me with wide-eyed guilt, a bottle of water held out like an offering. The sun catches on her flushed face, her hair sticking to her temples from exertion. She looks like she’s about to cry, and it makes me sigh.

“That was a good throw.” I grab the bottle, squinting as the pain in my forehead intensifies.

“It was an accident,” she insists, stepping forward as if to examine me.

“I know.” I straighten, blinking to dispel the discomfort. “I’m going to the Nurse’s Office.”

She looks like she wants to follow me but hesitates when the teacher catches her eye from across the court. With one last worried glance, she turns away.

The walk to the Nurse’s Office is short, but my head grows heavier with every step. By the time I push open the door, the fluorescent lights make me wince. The nurse—a woman with a watchful gaze and a forced smile—looks up from the counter.

“Mr. Hill,” she says, like she’s been expecting me. “What’s wrong?”

“Dodgeball,” I murmur, pressing my fingers against my temples.

She watches me for a moment before motioning for me to sit on the stretcher. Her movements are too meticulous as she examines my head, her fingers pressing into tender spots that make my heart clench in discomfort.

Then she smiles.

“Were you distracting yourself by kissing boys again?” she asks, her tone too casual.

“No. Like I said, I was playing dodgeball.”

“You could have lied.”

Her hands find my chin, tilting my face toward her as she moves closer—so close that, for a second, I think she’s going to kiss me. But she doesn’t.

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