Page 35 of In Her Own Rite

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I say. “Come on, next step.”

We coat them and the vegetables with oil and herbs, then put the sheet in the oven. I take over seasoning the salmon the way Gabe instructed, and Kieran finds a cast iron pan. We shouldn’t start cooking the fish until the vegetables are close to done, so after I have everything laid out, I head back to the den to work on my sketch while Kieran looks for drinks.

He comes back five minutes later, a beer in his hand, and hands me a rose soda.

“Oh, I’m surprised we still have these,” I say, opening it.

“They didn’t have anything for you in the fridge, so I went down to the cellar and we found a case.”

“Thanks,” I say, and take a sip.

“What are you drawing?”

I turn my sketchpad for him to see, and he turns his head. “Gabe,” he says, nodding in recognition. “It’s good. You can see the way he laughs. I love your paintings.”

“They’re hardly paintings.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. They’re great,” he says, and takes a seat on the couch. I can feel my inner wolf register the nearness of him. It seems he feels the same, so he scootches a few feet over.

“You should show me your sketches for the wedding arch you’re making,” I say.

“I don’t have anything with me.” He takes a swig of his beer. “I wasn’t planning on coming here. I’m lucky there’s still some clothes that fit upstairs.”

“You didn’t have to come.”

“I didn’t want to leave you alone,” he says.

“I would have been fine.”

“Maybe. But if you weren’t, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

I look down at his open hand, lying in the space between us, my black hair tie still on his wrist. I still don’t really understand why I gave it to him, but it does something to me to see him wearing it, and I don’t want to ask for it back.

Carefully, I lift his hand in mine to see where his cut was. I run a finger over the little pink line, admiring my work.

“Em…” he says softly. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“No, probably not,” I say, and I look up to meet his eyes. “But I want you to know that I don’t regret it. What happened last night.”

I wait. I want him to tell me,me, neither. I want him to tell me he wants me again like that, today and tomorrow and the tomorrow after that. I want him to call mekiyyuni.

But he says nothing, and I find myself blushing, dropping his hand back into his lap.

“Em—”

“No, you’re right. It’s not a good idea. I’ll go finish the salmon,” I say, and stand to go to the kitchen.

13

EMERSON

I’m six years old, sitting in the hallway closet with my knees curled up to my chest.

“Emerson, go,” she said. But I can hear them in the living room: him shouting, her crying. The scent of fear and fury in the air.

I rock back and forth. Stay here, she told me. But at the sound of something breaking, my panic rises higher, and I reach for the handle and crawl out into the hallway.

Don’t do it, my inner voice says.This is a dream. Wake up. But I don’t.

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