Page 59 of Invasive Species
My stomach twinges, rebelling against the idea of Gara breaking off whatever we have. The guy has rearranged my insides with his cock, and… maybe more than that.
I told him I want to take it slow, but that was a lie. I'm falling hard. Too hard. I can’t stop it. And I hate it.
It’s like I have to protect him from me—from my intensity—or I’ll ruin everything before it even starts. There’s so much more to learn about Gara, so many layers he hides behind that guarded exterior. He’d cracked open for me while he was beneath me, voice low and tentative, telling me about his upbringing—at least part of it.
But then we were interrupted, and then my fuck up came to light. His silence was a type of rejection, hiding what he feels with me instead of being bold enough to claim a kiss, and now it echoes louder with each passing minute. I can't rush into this; it’d be like a redheaded bull storming through the fragile china shop of Gara's trauma and innocence. If I'm not careful, I'll smash everything.
And maybe I already have.
My legs tremble as I make my way back to the second canvas, the one I’d started with him. I barely have the strength to face it. But I do, and my breath catches. I’d sketched him in that moment of vulnerability, when he’d bared himself, naked, lying under me. And… happy. His eyes were bright, his face relaxed.
But the way he’d looked at me in the kitchen just now… I can see it, that haunted flash in his eyes snatching away that happiness.
Betrayal.
My heart sinks. I've left him troubled. It’s what I do. It’s what I always do.
A familiar, deep ache gnaws at my stomach, but this isn’t period cramps. This is dread, regret, everything inside me twisting and knotting itself into one overwhelming mess. How much time has passed? Long enough that when I glance outside, the sky is streaked in red. Sunset already?
Gara hasn’t come back. The silence of the house feels heavier, like the weight of a decision I can’t undo. I know I should leave him alone—give him space—but every fiber of my beingscreams at me to find him, to fix this. To tell him I’m an idiot, that I didn’t mean to use him, and to beg him to trust me enough to open up again.
But even I know that’s a terrible idea.
The urge to run to him claws at me as I head outside, pulling on my boots with more force than needed. The chickens are quiet tonight, shuffling into the hen house when I scatter the seed, but my mind is far from them. All I can think about ishim.But Old Mae’s missing, and she’s hard to miss.
I glance around, frowning. Normally the thigh-high chicken-raptor hybrid would be clucking around the yard like she owns the place, especially now that Floss is off with Ellen.
A tight knot forms in my chest as I think about my best friend, about how much she trusted me to handle things while she’s gone.She believed in me.
I won’t let her down. I won’t be the disaster I fear I am.
“Mae!” I call out, the sound bouncing off the house walls and disappearing into the wind. But there's no response. No flash of feathers, no angry squawk. The yard feels too empty. Too quiet.
And I can’t shake the feeling that something’s gone terribly wrong.
Cloying fear wraps around me like the chill evening wind as I remember Fassbender was here. Did he see her? Did he do something to Old Mae?
I tear into the house and fish Fassbender’s thick, gold embossed business card out of the trash, and dial his number with shaking fingers.
He answers after three rings. “Hello, Terry here.”
“It's Arabella, the artist at the Smith farm,” I blurt, breathless. “Have you seen a purple chicken?”
A sharp intake of breath tells me he has. “It chased my car up the drive.”
Of course she would, brave thing. “Where did she turn around to come back?”
“She? That thing is a monstrosity.”
“She… she's an art project too,” I lie desperately. “Wearing cruelty free prosthetics.”
“I… see.” His tone drips disbelief.
I close my eyes tight. I have to keep this place from falling apart. “Please tell me where you saw her last.”
“Well, I pulled in to make a call and the damn thing strutted in front of me. I considered using my horn, but that would have scared the sheep, so instead I continued forward.”
“What? You herded her up the driveway? How far?” Not the road, please not the road…
