“You cut me off from you?”
“Just our powers. We’ve done it to Seth before, to slow him down a little.”
Seth rubs a thoughtful hand on the back of his neck. “It does kind of gut you, though, guys.”
“What do you mean?” Roarke demands.
“I mean, I was too damn pissed to discuss it at the time, but it does feel like having parts of you removed. Like your, ah, emotional arms and legs have been cut off.”
Roarke curses – again. Killian’s brow draws down, creasing in regret, and I can’t chuckin’ handle that.
I struggle to sit up, to get away from their eyes and their sudden looks of shock. My fingers dig into the back of the couch, trying to get a grip, to help me up, but I’m just gasping and failing.
Pax pulls me up, wrapping me in a giant hug and growling softly into my hair. “It’s temporary.”
It’s still Pax in my arms. The exact same shape, every muscle in detail, his hair a silky texture under my fingers, his chin shaved smooth. But he doesn’t feel like he’s mine anymore.
“You don’t smell right.”
He passes me to Killian. The big guy hugs me tightly with a hand at the back of my head and another on my shoulder. Same icy hands – I know that, it’s a clean-cut fact. But they could belong to a stranger for all they feel connected to my Killian.
“Necessary,” he says, peeling me back from his arms.
“You don’t have a little shadow anymore,” I whisper.
“Small sacrifice.”
It doesn’t feel small to me.
Roarke peels me away from Killian.
“Let me explain,” he begins. Distress fills his dark gaze, smoothing the little lines around his eyes that he gets when he’s thinking or lost in his books. I can see the calculations going through his mind, risk versus reward. I’m his reward, I know that. I’m worth the risk – but my last few steps in this world are not worth living without feeling him. Doesn’t he get that he’s worth it too? “Kitten, his Shadows are dangerous. Even without your bubble, we still would have –”
Seth stops him, grabbing my arm and yanking me out of Roarke’s grip. Pulling me away from the mess I’m about to blurt out. Syllables about needing him. Words filled with grief. Lines laced with pulsing anger because he might put himself last but I don’t.
“Wrong thing to say, brother,” Seth says as he hooks one arm under my ass and picks me up. I pool into his chest, silently losing my battle with the tears. He carries me to the nearest chair adding, “I’ll sit with her.”
I curl into his lap, my head nestled underneath his chin, and my eyes closed.
The sounds of footsteps retreat behind me, someone up the stairs, someone out the door. Not sure who goes where, and I don’t feel them leave.
Seth’s hand runs up and down my spine.
“We’re alone now,” he whispers.
I stop fighting the pain and just let it all out. Seth doesn’t rush me, doesn’t stop me or even tell me it’ll all be okay. He just holds me, for a very long time. One hand firm to my hip, holding me like he’ll never let me go, and the other brushing over my head, my hair, down my back, and then up again. And again.
Soft, and slow, and perfectly in time with my evening breath, my slowing heart, my calming mind. Like a magician ordering the world into order without the world realizing it.
Each second a little softer and a little slower.
Even after my little sobs have stopped and my eyes have dried.
“Ready?” he eventually asks.
“Nope.” I exhale.
He chuckles and pulls me in tighter, if that’s even possible.
I knead the heel of my hand into his chest a bit, like it’s a pillow. “You’re pretty comfortable.”
“More than Allure?”
“I don’t know? I haven’t used his chest as a pillow before.”
I’m fully expecting this conversation to turn into a renaming of chest-and-pillow – chillow? – but his finger hooks under my chin and tilts my head back mid-kneading.
He smiles down at me, so gentle, like looking at the Seth under all the Chaos, and suddenly the air has fallen to the floor. Someone just cut its strings, down, gone, can’t breathe. Why are his eyes so pure, and why are they looking at me like that?
His tongue runs over his lips before he mutters, “Fuck it,” and leans in to kiss me. Soft, all-consuming, and somehow the command the world needs to get the air to function again. Not that I care. Seth’s lips, Seth’s tongue, Seth’s breath and the beat of his heart under my palm – that’s all I care about right now.
My Seth.
His hand slips under the hem of my shirt, cool against the skin on my side, sliding higher with his fingers splayed. Thumb running over my ribs to settle against the edge of my breastband, fingers curling around to my back. Gripping and relaxing as if he’s forcing himself to stop there, which he fails at. Instead, he hooks under my breastband, making my breath hitch in excitement.
His lips pause, and I try to chase them, but I’m too short compared to him – all he has to do is lean back, and his lips are too high for me to reclaim.
“Come on,” he says, his hand falling quickly to my hip, and lifting me off his lap – slowly, like he might change his mind yet. “I’m hungry, you’re hungry, let’s make bread.”
“I’m not that hungry,” I argue.
“I am,” he groans, and I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about food.
My insides ball and flip, but when I open my mouth, something stupid comes out, “What time is it?” Why do I care?
He smiles, nudging us both toward the kitchen. “A little after breakfast, or maybe a little before morning tea.”
The wall pushes on my back with a hard certainty that my life is
