Page 90 of Splitting Secrets
“And?” he repeats incredulously. “And aside from the fact that losing you would royally fuck all of our plans, I can’t even begin to think what I would do to this entire town if something happened to you.”
“You’re always talking about how much you care about me, but you’ve hardly been here at all,” I point out, ignoring how much it’s bothered me. I guess I can't pretend to be mad that he’s here when his absence has affected me this much.
He gapes at me, his jaw moving back and forth as he considers his next words. “I’ve been running myself into the ground, trying to send the Supremes in every other direction to buy everyone else time to organize.”
When I can’t come up with a rebuttal fast enough, he tacks on, “And to make sure you have enough time to train.”
Right, training for this supposed war where I’ll be fighting people in the streets like some ninja warrior, meanwhile I can hardly balance on one leg on a good day.
“Griff says you’re progressing at an accelerated pace,” he quips.
Shoot. Did he just read my thoughts?
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Read my mind without my permission.”
He shakes his head, blinking. “I didn’t realize you didn’t say that out loud. But that reminds me. I need to show you how to shield your thoughts from someone else.”
“I think you’re the only person who wants to creep into my mind,” I snark.
But his expression remains serious. “I’m not, and not knowing how to shield is leaving yourself at a huge disadvantage. Everything you think is so...loud.”
My mouth pops open in mock offense. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know if it’s ayouthing or anusthing, but every thought you have lately feels like it’s being screamed directly into my mind.”
“Griffin has already gone over some technique. I just wasn’t trying,” I inform him matter-of-factly. In truth, the thought of us having any sort of connection where my thoughts are screamed into his mind absolutely terrifies me.
“Griff has basic knowledge, but he doesn’t know how to shield as someone who can also infiltrate.”
I stare back, too stubborn to agree. It does seem like his technique is a little one-sided.
“Let’s go over a couple of basics,” he begins, taking my silence as permission. “First, you’re going to want to ground yourself. Most people suggest thinking of your favorite place and imagining you’re there. Got it?”
I nod, already having a place in mind. It’s the same spot I used back when Poppy got us meditation lessons for Christmas. We only made it for two of the six sessions, but I still learned a lot about centering myself and gaining control over my emotions. It was especially useful during those hard times with Aunt Divina.
I close my eyes and picture myself standing in my bedroom at my childhood home, my feet firmly planted on the fluffy gray carpet my parents picked out for me. The walls are purple, my bedspread has butterflies stitched into it, and posters from my favorite magazines are scattered all around.
“Okay, once you’re there, you’re going to want to build a door. I’ve always built it up manually, piece by piece.”
I do exactly what he describes. “Done.”
“Next, we’re just going to try opening and closing the door. Can you do that?”
The door slams shut, then opens again. My eyes connect with Raze’s, silently giving the signal to test it out. I don’t experience anything at first. It’s like standing in my empty room in silence. But then, I close the door and within a few seconds, I feel a gentle caress against the hard wood I’ve imagined, and I know it’s him.
I gasp, eyes widening in amazement. “That was you.”
“Yes. Keep practicing that,” he instructs in his professor tone. “You need to be able to keep that door shut without so much effort.”
Frowning, I drop my shoulders and shake my head in defeat.
Raze notices instantly. “What happened?”
“I’m just sick of this. I’m sick of all of it. What good is this going to be when I have no time to master any of it?”
