Page 78 of Blood Queen

I can’t stop the tears now. They fall freely, hot and painful, as the weight of his words crashes over me. It’s too much. I’ve been fighting this, fighting the idea of leaving my life behind, but Truman… he’s right. I’ve already lost too much. My family, my life as I knew it—it’s all gone.

The only person I have left—have ever truly had—is him.

“I can’t… I can’t make you do that,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I can’t ask you to give up your life for me. I don’t deserve that.”

Truman leans in, his forehead resting against mine, his breath warm against my skin. “You’re not asking. I’m choosing this… I choose you.”

His words wrap around me like a blanket, pulling me closer, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself believe it. Let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, there’s a way out of this.

A way to start over.

He presses his lips to my forehead, his kiss soft and tender, and it’s precisely what I need in this moment. He’s here with me. He’s staying. And he’s going to help me rebuild whatever is left of me.

“I’ll be with you,” Truman says, his voice steady now, as if this decision has already been made. “Wherever you go, I’ll be right there with you. I won’t let you go. I can’t.”

The tears come harder now, and I nod into his chest, letting myself crumble, letting myself break down completely in his arms. For the first time in my life, I feel like I have something real to hold onto. Something worth fighting for.

“I love you, Truman,” I whisper, the words spilling out like they’ve been bottled up and buried for too long.

“I love you too,” he murmurs back, his voice thick with emotion. “And we’ll figure this out together.”

Truman’s heart beats steadily under my cheek, reassuring and true, and I breathe in the scent of him—warm, familiar.

Finally, reluctantly, I pull back and look up into his eyes which are bright with tears. We both laugh shakily, swiping at our wet cheeks with the backs of our hands.

“I must look like a mess,” I say with a half-smile.

“You look perfect,” Truman replies.

He reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his touch sending a calm ripple through me. And for once, for this moment, I believe him. I believe in the truth of us.

“So,” I say softly, “how does this work?”

42

Truman

Five years.

I’ve spent five damn years in this small town where every day hides its own secrets just for us—a place where even the rustle of the wind and ripples on the pond feel like they belong solely to our world. Blueridge sits tucked away among rugged mountain slopes, home to barely two thousand tough souls. Here, life moves at a steady, unhurried pace—a quiet pond inviting a summer dip, an ice cream shop that brings simple joy with its sweet creamy treats, and a bakery that never fails to fire up the oven with fresh, gooey chocolate chip cookies. And believe it or not, I’m still in the law game, working as a legal assistant at our local firm.

I’m sitting on the weathered wooden porch of our cabin, watching the sun climb slowly behind the towering mountains. The sky bursts into bold shades of pink and gold, each flare reflecting off the pines and scattered clouds. A cool breezeweaves through the trees, rustling the leaves, and in that moment, I feel at home—grounded and at peace. The chaos of the outside world seems a distant memory, the violent echoes of a past life have faded away.

Then I hear the creak of the door and the soft, sure steps of her approaching. Meghan—my wife, my rock—steps onto the porch. Even with the undeniable changes of pregnancy marked by her beautifully rounded belly, she carries herself with a determined grace. We fought hard to carve out this life, navigating uncertainty, weathering nightmares, and letting go of trauma.

We made it together, and I’d make the same choice every damn time to be here with her.

She’s radiant, her belly proudly showing the life growing inside, just a week away from meeting our daughter. I can’t tear my eyes away from her—the way she moves, the effortless beauty of her loose ponytail catching the light as she steps forward, a soft, knowing smile on her lips.

“Sam,” she calls out, her voice warm and laced with affection, making our new names—Meghan and Sam—feel as natural as the air around us. “You’re out here all by yourself again.”

I let out a deep, genuine laugh that vibrates with a mixture of contentment and relief. Meghan rolls her eyes playfully but crosses over to sit beside me on our creaky porch swing. The wood beneath us groans softly as it sways, laden with our shared history and hopes for tomorrow. Pulling her close, I wrap my arm around her shoulders as I inhale deeply, savoring the familiar, comforting scent of her hair—a scent that speaks of home and healing.

I can’t get enough of her. Never could.

“How’s the feed store?” I ask, my thumb tracing small circles on the bare skin of her arm.

She shrugs, leaning her head on my shoulder. “Busy, but good. The animals are all fed, the shelves are stocked, and I managed to talk to that cranky farmer about his chickens today. He’s a little grumpy, but I think he likes me.”

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