Page 18 of Severed Rivalry
It takes all the discipline I have not to pull him on top of meor alternately, push him to his back so I can be astride him. Instead, I pull back and reach for his jaw, rubbing a finger down his bristly stubble, watching my finger as it goes.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper. “To know you so fully, but not know you at all. To trust you with me when things…” I shake my head before laying it all out there. “I’ll be real with you. I’ll give you the truth, even when I don’t like it. But I need the same. I need brutal truth, severed from the flowery language. Promise me.”
“My Angel.” His face is thoughtful as if he’s considering my request. It’s a long moment before he speaks. “I promise. In return, I want you to promise me you’ll trust me with whatever fears haunt you. Those ghosts that trouble you? I want to be the one who hunts them.”
I nod, but I don’t tell him.
They hunt me. They hunt us. And one day, they’ll come.
Because they always do.
6
so meat
Cian
The banging on my door is unexpected. It’s six in the morning. There’s no way I could sleep anyway. Two nights ago, I finally saw Sariah again. Last night, I held her in my arms until I made the choice to peel myself away and let her get some rest.
Pulling open the door, I find my sister, Ayla, looking way worse than I expected.
“Come in, sis.”
Instead, she falls into my chest, grips my shirt like it’s the only thing holding her upright, and sobs.
Eleanor is at her side in an instant. My girl nuzzles her favorite human and leans her support into Ayla’s leg.
There we stand for several long minutes. Me holding my sister. My pup taking her flank with my front door wide open and Colorado morning sunshine streaming in. My sister cries as if every good thing in her life was a mirage that evaporated, and she’s left holding the empty air of every possible dream she could’ve dreamt.
Finally, when her sobbing subsides enough for her to breathe, I kiss the top of her head. “Come in, Ayla.” I offer again. “Want an omelet?”
It’s a thing with us. I’m a decent cook. I don’t have a ton in my repertoire, but my omelets are spot on.
She shakes her head, but says, “Okay.”
I close the door and wrap an arm around her shoulders, leading her through the naturally lit great room with its story-and-a-half windows to the large, pale kitchen. She takes a seat at the island and draws her fingers along the veins in the marble as I light the stove and move to the fridge.
I can’t see my dog, but I know with certainty she’s at Ayla’s feet looking like she hung the moon. Or more aptly, created the entirety of the Front Range just for her to wander.
“Want to go for a hike after breakfast?”
She shrugs, dragging her fingers over the pattern in stone, staring at her work as if losing her place were the worst thing in the world. “Remember the last time we made omelets?”
I do. It wasn’t that long ago. “That was a rough night.”
“The night before last was worse.”
“I missed it coming in late, but, sis, I can’t imagine it being worse.”
“He hates me. I hate me.” She smacks her temple with too much force. “Why won’t my brain work?”
“Christian doesn’t hate you. Your husband is…” How does one describe my brother-in-law? “Intense.”
“He thinks I lied to him.”
All I can do is nod. “And maybe you did. You can’t control that now. Can’t go back and fix it. I’m not saying you get a pass, but amnesia really does throw a wrench in the works.”
I crack some eggs and whisk them, setting them aside to chop meat and veggies. “Want it all?” I tilt my head to the cutting board.
