She’s doing everything necessary to stay alive.
So she can remember.
Truth slams into me.
Her motivation, her strength, isn’t survival for herself.
It’s to keep her memories alive.
We’re polar opposites, her and I.
“You’re referring to what precisely?” Vander asks, ending my downward spiral.
“What you will do with me.”
My control snaps, air rushing past my face as I launch myself across the room. Vander’s shoulder ends my forward momentum, driving into my gut as he intercepts me.
Even as my breath knocks out of my lungs, I slam my elbow into his back, snarling as his arm wraps around my torso. He shoves up, stealing my balance.
I strike again, aiming for his kidney, missing only because another arm deflects my blow.
Kwame’s dark skin flashes through my vision, his block causing the nerves along my inner arm to scream in agony. Jamming my knee into the torso available, Vander’s resulting grunt spears a bit of satisfaction into my rage.
Until an arm wraps around my neck from behind.
Snarling, knowing I’m outnumbered, understanding the futility of continuing, I lash out anyway.
Stomping my boot down on the nearest foot, I twist my hips and use my core muscles to swing, sending my unimpeded elbow into Kwame’s sternum.
The arm around my neck, which must be Seeck’s by the size of it, tightens and stops me from sucking in oxygen.
Kwame’s fists close around my bicep and wrist, rendering my left arm useless. Vander drops down, kneeling on my foot and yanking my right arm to my side. Bear hugging me, he traps me in a cage of muscle.
Testosterone and aggression fill the air, feminine fear lacing the edges.
Training my eyes on my target, I can’t stop my muscles from lunging, even though my restraints refuse to budge.
Heightened instincts demand I snatch her up and haul her to my den.
Fury rides me hard, screaming for me to toss her over my shoulder and carry her out of danger.
She expects to be cast out. Tucked into a box and forgotten. Hidden away where she won’t be a threat to anyone.
Alone. Rejected. Treated as though she’s an infection that must be removed.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t cower or try to evade.
No, she stares back at me, eyes wide, lips in a tight line, and pain apparent in every feature. Disapproval seems to be the most prominent expression emanating from her, besides pain and shock.
Yet when Seeck loosens his hold and lets me inhale, I shove away my explosive instincts and corral my emotions.
I summon a calm section of myself and send it into our link, approaching her blockade with as much composure as I can manage.
She offers me comfort, the tiny hole in her defenses portraying her understanding. Her face may say she doesn’t agree with my actions, but her soul relates.
Except, unlike me, she’s had years to come to terms with her situation. I learned about this less than an hour ago.
A sliver of her soul does what she does best, easing my fury and soothing my distraught edges with soft caresses and serene tranquility.
My heart breaks in two.
It’s exactly how she treats those she’s lost.
She may as well have gathered me in her arms like a babe and swaddled me in motherly love.
Because that’s who she is.
That’s what she’s lost.
Lives.
Innocent lives, some never strong enough to take their first breath.
Others slowly fading, their will to live sucked from them by their mother’s sickness.
Tiny toes, pale and still.
Angelic faces, perfect little noses and sweet little cheeks, seemingly in repose except for their grey coloring.
Monitors falling silent.
The arrival of death.
Another vine shriveling, the burn of separation eased by nothing.
Yet through it all, her serenity remains, tendrils of her heart in constant motion, soothing and loving each unique life.
Each child, whether weeks after gestation or weeks after birth, faded away never knowing the touch of their mother’s hands. Never knowing how it felt to be comforted in their mother’s arms.
Never knew the warmth of her skin.
She will never stop celebrating them, no matter how short their span of life was on this world.
They mean everything to her.
I mean everything to her—I can feel it in the tender way she strokes my soul. The way she protects me from her sorrow. In the sure way she encompasses my heart with her tender compassion.
The salty tang of tears on my tongue registers, my chest heaving with uneven breaths.
“You can’t go,” I plead, uncaring about the cascade of wetness dripping from my chin.
“It would be safest if I did.”
“Stay.”
“It isn’t up to me. Or you.”
“Yes, it is. Don’t just give up. Stay.”
“Jumoke…”
Pale orange orbs glimmer with a slight liquid sheen, but still she stands against the wall, a self-contained ball of misery. Her deep breath causes her cheek to tick with pain, but her heart’s gentle caresses urge me to look elsewhere.
“Our lives are not the only ones at stake,” she states, the warm tone of her voice at odds with her rigid stance.
My energy flees, leaving me grateful of my teammates’ arms, their support the only thing keeping me standing.
Her gaze travels to the other occupants of the room, and as though on a leash, mine follow.
Britani sits where Kwame left her, Shya plastered to her side as Nova stands behind them, her arms wrapped around them both. Dirk stands a few steps away, closer to us but not blocking their view, his muscles bunched as though prepared for battle.
The stench of their fear creeps into my nostrils, sinking me further into despair.
Slim fingers clutch petite arms, and for a moment, all I see is their terror. Guilt makes me wish my teammates would drop and beat me like I deserve for terrorizing their lifemates.
Shya’s movement forces my focus to shift, her pink eyes darting between Dirk’s back and Britani’s lap.
Shiny metal protrudes from Britani’s fist, her blade ready to defend herself and her friends. Brilliant green irises flash with ferocious fire, the untamed instincts eager to jump at the chance to unleash her temper. They bore holes in my chest, her preferred places to slide
