Page 94 of Deadly Maiden

“Oh fuck.” That was me. All of that.

I did some bad, bad things. In feeling sorry for myself, I ignored and neglected her.

Can I ever say sorry enough? What if this happens again?

Is she even still here?

Panicking, I prowl into the dining room to find her seated, the chair reversed, her arms lined along the back while she stares at the dawn though the small window.

A soft breeze brings the scents of bacon and coffee. My stomach grumbles.

Wyntre turns and sees me. “Oh. You’re up.” The stillness of her gaze scares me. Her entire face is quiet, really, as if she isn’t certain how to react.

I nod. My heartbeat calms a few notches. She hasn’t left me.

What can I do, say? She must know how stupid I’ve been?

*She does, you deserve a kick up the rear.*

ID?

*Who else would be in your filthy, wine-sodden head at this hour?*

Who else indeed.

Prepared to be cut down with some dismissive, angry remark, I go to her and slowly wrap her in my arms. I breathe into her hair. This. This is what I used to do. I remember doing this, and it’s still as wonderful.

My eyes are wet. I brush away the damn stupid sadness.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’ve been a hideous mess.”

“Yes. You have.” Then she bumps her head backward into my chest. “Oh, Rorsyd.” Her sigh is a shudder. “Are you truly back now? The fae I love?”

“I am. If I ever do that again, please do something painful to me, even if you have to walk away from me. I hate that I hurt you.”

“Well that’s a tremendous start. Already I’m liking you.” Turning in my arms, she stops and taps my forearm like a teacher with a lesson. Her smile wobbles. “Let’s get some food for breakfast at the café and take it to the lake so we can talk.”

“Sure. Should I be worried?”

“I don’t know?” The look she gives me is steady, measured.

Considering what I’ve done, I cannot expect a hug to fix this. I may soon wish I’d opted to go wrestle a sea monster instead.

I haven’t asked her about the visitor I found curled up on my feet. It’s not in the closet anymore.

Later.

I make sure to hold her hand on the walk.

Next to the café, a pack of teenage wolfshifters has attracted enforcers—one of the shifters sits on the sidewalk with his head buried in his arms, furred ears lowered as if he’s just shifted back. Blood drips from his face. The fuss is too close for us, so we buy pastries as unobtrusively as we can and move onward.

We can get mugs of tea or coffee from the library food court.

If she wants me to, I’ll drag a pot out to the lake, build a campfire, and brew the tea or coffee out there. The longer I have to wait for this talk, the more excruciating it becomes, and the more I dread it.

I sip the milky liquid, grimace, and raise the blue ceramic mug.

“The tea is still warm-ish.” It’s taken a great amount of care to get any tea out here without spilling most.

---