Page 216 of Boy of Ruin
Because that grief that comes with him is palpable, like a thunderstorm inside this sterile room.
I fuck around with the buttons on the remote to my bed, inclining it so I’m sitting up. I’m exhausted, but I feel fine, physically. The bleeding was unexplained, but the baby is fine, and once more, I felt guilty that Lucifer didn’t get to see the ultrasound, didn’t get to hear the heart whooshing.
I felt even worse when a nurse asked about the J carved into my stomach.
I told her to mind her own business.
It wasn’t that that made me feel guilty.
It was thinking of the scar it’ll leave behind. How Lucifer might want me to tattoo over it, fuck, he might try to carve it out himself, but…I want it.
And as Jeremiah sits on the edge of my bed, the entire fucking thing dipping with his weight when he grabs my hands, holding them tightly in his, I know that might be all I have to remember him by.
I was wrong.
Lucifer won’t leave me.
Or maybe he will, when he gets discharged. Maybe he’ll be gone too.
But so will J.
I can see it all over his face, and I want to beg him to stay. I want to throw myself into his arms as his thumb runs over the top of my hand, the needle jammed in a vein. He’s careful to avoid it.
So fucking careful.
So gentle.
Something he’s only ever been with me.
Thinking of him doing this with someone else makes my stomach twist into knots. My mouth is dry, and I want to say something, to stop him from talking, but I can’t get the words out.
Something bad is about to happen.
My heart is going to shatter all over again.
“Baby,” he says, his voice broken. He glances down at our linked hands, the morning sun peeking through the cracked blinds at my back. There’s a tray beside me, a cup of ice cubes in it, and I want to reach for it. I want to do something with my hands besides hold his, knowing he’s going to get up and walk out.
He’s going to leave me.
“Don’t leave me.” I blurt the words out, fast and in a rush.
His eyes hold mine, searching. I see tears welling in his own, beautiful green gleaming through the pain. So much fucking pain he’s lived through, it’s amazing he’s able to be gentle at all.
Amazing, and heartbreaking, because he’s going to go through more.
“Baby,” he says again, “I think we both know I have to.”
No. Don’t leave me. I want to scream it. I want to scream at him. Shake him. Hurt him. Keep him here.
Don’t you dare fucking leave me.
Panic threatens to wash over me, and he glances down between us, at my stomach, covered by the starchy white sheet and the paper-thin hospital gown. Aside from the question about his name branded into my belly, the nurses and the doctor haven’t asked about what happened to me. To us.
Maverick, I think, had something to do with the fact that they haven’t pried.
He came to me first, wrapped his arms around me. Ella did too.
And he didn’t seem at all upset that our dad is gone. We didn’t talk about it, but if anything, he seemed…lighter.
