Page 88 of Unveil
“I thought Whitby Rose graveyard was neutral ground.”
“It was,” he growls. “Both Wildes and Furys buried kin here. Weusedto respect the dead.”
“Until six years ago,” I whisper.
“Until six years ago,” he echoes.
His hand tightens around mine. Thunder rolls in the distance, and a chilly breeze strokes up my spine like a ghostly finger. The touch felt so tangible, my gaze darts around the graveyard, trying to make sure I only imagined it. But my search doesn’t help. The woods have eyes in the dark.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “The cove is a few miles into neutral territory still, and I’ve got traps there. The plan doesn’t change. We’re getting the fuck out of this place, come hell or high water.”
Orion still hasn’t come back.
I went to bed without him, curling up in a cot that felt strangely empty, and made myself sleep as long as I could. But when I woke up to find him still gone, my nerves went haywire. Hours later, and I’ve taken up pacing, staring out the warped windows to watch the tree line, listening after every branch snap, and praying the renewed storm hasn’t swallowed him whole.
I’m still furious with him, half-tempted to kick his ass when he shows up. One good knee to the balls is all I’ll need to remind him I’m not some delicate bird to cage and guard.
But every minute he’s gone, worry evaporates more of my anger. And as much as I wish those words I slung at him in the graveyard were true… I don’t hate him.
I didn’t realize, though, justhow muchI don’t hate him.
He’s fought for me, saved me, treated me with care and respect when I was fraying at the edges. Not only that, but now that I’ve witnessed graves blackened from burning hate betweenthe Wildes and Furys, I finally understand the stakes in this feud. Which means I finally understand Orion better too.
Not the way he talked to me, obviously, because fuck him for that. But I get his instinctual need to protect everyone he loves, the urgency running like a current under his skin. We’re alike in that way. Bordeauxs would set the world aflame for our family. Unlike me, though, Orion’s already had everything burn to ash once, right in front of him. From the scars on his hands to the scorched gravestone that failed to shield his mother, I believe him when he says he’ll do anything to keep his loved ones safe.
And… I think that includes me.
What do I do with that?
Right now? Nothing. No, I’m taking the coward’s way out, falling back on my usual M.O., aka distracting myself with literally anything to avoid emotions that are too deep to wade in.
At the moment, I’m stationed right in the trajectory of one of Orion’s traps, watching the fishing line glint like spider silk in the stove grate’s firelight. One wrong twitch and a boulder the size of my head could swing down and crush my noggin. The adrenaline of “will it-won’t it come crashing down” is enough to keep my mind from drifting where I’m afraid to go.
Is it messed up that I’d choose potential death over figuring out how I feel about Orion? Yes. Have I still dragged my finger over the wire like it’s Nox’s cello, wondering how much pressure it’d take to keep me from ever having to confront my feelings again? Also yes, and I do realize that my therapy appointment truly cannot come soon enough.
Like always, though, distraction only lasts so long before anxiety pushes in. Scattered rain dances across the tin roof, a kind of white noise that usually lulls me to sleep like a baby. But nothing feels soothing without knowing Orion is safe, and the longer I stare into the stormy wilderness, the less safe I feel too.Will he return before whateverthingIswearstares back finally emerges from the shadows and devours me?
Luna…
I freeze at my name on a hushed whisper, so faint I almost think I imagined it. My heart instantly hammers so loudly that I’m afraid I can’t hear if it happens again. Orion’s superstitions echo in my head, but a reality check reverberates back.
Momma has auditory hallucinations. We thought her illness was different from mine, though, and I’ve never gotten to the point of psychosis before. This can’t be psychosis. It just can’t be.
Right?
I swallow.
“Luna?”
“No,” I whisper, pressing my palms over my ears. “No, no?—”
“Lu, you in there? It’s Benoit.”
My hands peel away. I hold my breath to listen.
“Come on, Luna. It’s cold out here,” my friend grumbles.
Relief and excitement shock through me, urging me to the door to fling it open.
