Page 30 of Bones

“Your abuser may have seen a chance to insert him back into your life. It may not have been intentional, but rather than considering all the what-if’s believing him, I think you should consider what if he was lying?”

The gray apathy doesn’t fully disappear around me but it’s like the world is a little bit brighter, a little bit easier to endure.

“This isn’t something that’s answered in a day, Sloan,” Dr. Grayback says softly as she leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees and threading her fingers together. “What you’re experiencing is completely natural and you’re not alone in dealing with things like this. It’ll take time and practice. Realistically, it’ll take years until you overcome the smallest of the traumas you’ve survived. One thing you can do is find what helped paused that what-if spiral and consider if it’s something you can safely regularly use.”

Her gaze is gentle and supportive and I could be adding an implied question to her words, but my thoughts go to Bones. I look out the window, the blinds open to the small landscaped yard in front of her office building. I purse my lips, debating on how to phrase my question. Long moments pass and she relaxes back in her chair, taking up her tea again.

I take a few more drinks of my own herbal drink, needing to wet my perpetually parched mouth. Then, looking at the chairover her shoulder, I gather my courage. “When--what. . .” I take a breath and try again. “What if I think I’m falling in love with someone? What if they’re what helps keep me grounded and helps me pull out of these spirals?”

Dr. Grayback studies me carefully and I wring my hands in my lap, waiting for her to tell me how stupid I am. Not just to jump into a sexual relationship so soon but also for being with a demon. What if she tells me I’m only attracted to Bones because he’s what the Light Justicars were against?

She takes so long that I’m on the verge of pulling back the question, regretting I ever asked it. Then she lets out a long, measured breath.

“The degree of success in having a healthy, mutually reciprocal relationship is directly related to how much individual work the trauma survivor has done. A therapist’s perfect scenario would be to say that a trauma survivor should not enter in a relationship until they take the time, years if necessary, to heal to a certain level. At the minimum, the trauma survivor needs to have done the work to overcome their triggers.” She crosses a leg over the other knee, her hands resting lightly on the armrests.

“Without doing the work so that they can be present and whole and ready for a relationship will naturally result in replaying the roles of the trauma. It’s why it’s common for trauma survivors to wind up in unhealthy relationships over and over. Even if the partner has the best intentions and is completely supportive, those who pair up with an unhealed survivor actually eventually adopts the persona of an abuser.”

Sorrow and disappointment weighs down my shoulders and I curl into myself. The idea of having to pull away from Bones for my own sake is--it’s a worse reaction than considering that Paulmay be lying. There’s one minuscule ember of hope still glowing valiantly against the growing darkness in me. I can’t look at her as I ask it, knowing her answer may devastate me.

“What if you’re mates?” I whisper, barely audible.

She doesn’t reply, the feel of the room turning to something different. Like I’ve walked up to a precipice and something vital has the chance to change my entire universe. I drag my eyes up, cradling that tiny ember of hope in my palms.

Dr. Grayback’s eyes are conflicted, but her expression isn’t enough to snuff the hope inside me. If anything, it flairs a little brighter.

“If,” she starts, her words cautionary, “ifthe trauma survivor finds their fated mate close to ground zero, they can have a healthy successful relationshiponly--“ she strongly emphasizes the word-- “if they actively are aware of potential hurdles, actively prevent them, and work together and individually to help the trauma survivor heal as a completely separate person than their mate. Fated mates don’t guarantee healthy relationships. All relationships are hard work. Having a mate is only a slight, but realistic, advantage to have a successful relationship.”

That small ember grows with every word of hers, despite the gravity of her warning. It grows until it’s a small flame, nothing larger than a candle flame. But it’s there and no longer on the verge of being extinguished.

19

BONES

Wet, hot scratchy wool fills my lungs. It’s hard to breathe, harder to stay still. I’ve forced back the angry possessive and protective urges around Sloan that the fucker Paul triggered inside of me. I fucked up the mission to take out Father Xavius because I couldn’t handle how small Sloan had suddenly become in his presence. According to Cinder, I lost perspective. If Cinder thinks that, Reaper definitely does.

Which is why I’m sitting in one of the leather chairs across from the motorcycle club’s prez and our leader in his office. I keep my eyes trained on a spot over his right shoulder on the adobe wall.

Fuckity fuckity fuck.

Reaper told me to stay away from Sloan and I swore I would. Yet another promise I’ve broken. This is a broken promise I struggle to feel guilt over. Sloan is my mate. Our joining was inevitable.

I’ll take any punishment Reaper doles out. I’d face Prince Tol’vazir’s barbed whips each day if it meant I would have Sloan in my arms every night.

Reaper lets out a loud sigh, cutting through the silence of his office here in the clubhouse. I flinch at the disappointment so clear in the exhalation.

I bounce my knee, unable to contain myself. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

Gritting my teeth against his continued silence, I run a hand down my thigh and press hard enough to keep my leg still.

Reaper picks up the tablet in front of him, the screen lighting up before he turns it around and offers it to me. Brows narrowing, I take it from him and scan the document pulled up. I look back at him in a silent but obvious question.

He jerks his chin towards the tablet. “There’s video surveillance, too. Not much, but Stubs was able to find it.”

I swap to the videos he’s referencing, automatically cataloging the timestamp and length of each video. There are three in total and the longest one is only seven and a half seconds long. I press play on the first one.

“Motherfucker,” I breathe out. The chair creaks under my weight as I adjust, glaring at the scene in front of me. I swipe to the next video, this one only two seconds. I hit the settings and slow it down, watching it frame by frame. A growl burns its way out of my chest.

“Don’t break it,” Reaper says, his dry tone snatching me from the hold the clip had on me.

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