Page 15 of Love the Way You Lion
“Damn you all for this,” I whisper, more to myself than to them. Their collective resolve is a wall I find myself unprepared to scale, especially now when every part of me screams to flee from the sheer insanity of their scheme.
Sari’s head tilts, the motion as deliberate as a knife twist in my gut. “You didn’t seem to have any problem coming back to life after you and that feathered jackass drained one another and that was a week ago.”
My eyes narrow, lashes almost tangling with the viciousness of my glare. I feel it—the wave, the surge of raw emotion threatening to overwhelm the dam of my self-control. It’s anger, it’s hurt, it’s betrayal—all roiling in a tempest within me. “That was different and you know it!”
My voice is a low growl, each word a stone thrown hard against her accusation. Heat creeps up my neck, a telltale sign of my boiling point approaching. Belle’s lips curl into a sneer, her eyes glinting with mirth and malice. I can almost hear the crackle of her snark as she speaks, baiting me with every syllable.
“Oh, really? How?” The words slither out, coated in condescension, her smirk widening at the edge of her rouged lips.
The muscles in my jaw tighten, each tooth grinding against its counterpart like tectonic plates on the verge of an earthquake. I lean forward, my voice a venomous hiss slicing through the tension-thick air. “Let me count the ways.”
The room falls silent, the others’ breaths held in anticipation or maybe fear.
“One,” I start, my fingers twitching with the urge to lash out, “it’s none of your fucking business, Belle.” My glare bores into her, daring her to interrupt. She doesn’t, so I continue. “Two, we were out for thirty seconds, more like a blip in resuscitation in a hospital than actual death.” The memory flashes, a short circuit of darkness and then light, but nothing like the finality they’re proposing now. “Three,” the word comes out as a growl, “no one cremated our fucking bodies and had the entire community sit through a funeral.”
The image of grief-stricken faces and the smell of incense from that day claw at my senses, unwelcome and heavy. “Four,” I say, the intensity in my gaze unyielding, “it was private, personal, short, and Sari wouldn’t even know about it—much less you—if Talia hadn’t spilled the beans to a whiny Wilde.” The betrayal stings anew; trust shattered like thin ice beneath heavy boots. “Five,” I finish, my voice dropping to a dangerous octave, “fuck you, I’m done with this shit.”
Every word is a nail in the coffin of my patience, my tolerance for this absurd conversation. Each number hangs in the air like a verdict, my chest rising and falling with shallow, rapid breaths. I’ve laid it all out, stark and raw, the distinction between what happened to me and their ludicrous plan carved into stone.
I shoot up from my chair, a tempest swirling within me, feeling each muscle coil with the tension of a predator ready to pounce. The room seems to pulse with my fury, the air thickening like blood about to clot. My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms as if trying to anchor me to some semblance of sanity. But even that feeble attempt cannot stave off the dark thoughts that beckon, whispering sweet violence to calm the chaos in my heart.
“If this is the way you thank me for supporting you from the moment I knew,” I spit the words out like venom, each syllable dripping with the poison of betrayal, “for abandoning my mate who is dealing with his grief on his own, for not dealing with my grief, and how you honor your dead loved one, you can shove it where the sun doesn’t shine and twist.”
My breath comes out in ragged gasps, an echo of the exertion it takes not to act on the rage that’s threatening to spew forth. I pivot, prepared to storm out, the floorboards creaking beneath my weight, a testament to the heaviness of my departure. That’s when I sense him—my husband—the sudden drop in temperature, the faint shimmer in the air as he materializes.
Thank fuck.
He stands there, imposing, his eyes scanning the scene, confusion etched across his features like lines on a map that lead to nowhere. He’s clearly walked into the eye of the storm uninvited, his presence an unexpected variable in their equation of madness. As Iapproach, his brow furrows deeper, reading the turmoil written all over me.
“Take me home. Now, please,” I murmur, my voice cracking under the strain of suppressed sobs. His arms are my sanctuary as they encircle me, a shield against the madness that threatens to devour my resolve. He nods, understanding without needing any more words.
His response is swift, a low growl of assent that vibrates through the tense air. “My pleasure, heart of mine.” He casts a withering glare over my shoulder at the women who dared to push me to this precipice. In their silence, I can almost hear the cogs of regret grinding in their minds, but it’s too late for second thoughts.
I feel his power coil around us, the world blurring at the edges as he prepares to whisk us away from this place of betrayal and reckless schemes. For an instant, the tempest inside me eases, making room for a sliver of solace. It’s fleeting, this sense of peace, a mere wisp of tranquility in the storm that rages within, but I cling to it desperately. Because for now, it’s enough.
It has to be.
The Coyote Bites The Hand That Feeds Her
SARI
Istand on the dampened doorstep, rain dripping from my jacket like a cascade of liquid silver. I raise my hand to knock again, but before my knuckles can rap against the wood, the door swings ajar. Lily’s figure fills the gap, her eyebrows knitting together in surprise and concern.
“What on earth are you doing here?” Her voice, usually so composed, carries a note of incredulity that mirrors the arching of her brows.
Rainwater drips from my hair as I lock eyes with her, the droplets a chilling reminder of my desperation. “I need your help,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
The sorrow must be etched deeply into my features because Lily’s sharp gaze softens just a fraction. She’s always had this uncanny ability to sift through turmoil and find clarity, a beacon in the storm that so often rages within me. If anyone can nudge the cat toward the path I need it to take, it’s Lily.
Squinting, she assesses my expression, her analytical mind working behind those calculating eyes. She steps back, granting me entrance, though her posture remains guarded. “Shouldn’t you be at home with Deli and everyone else, working through the steps?” Her question is pointed, hinting at layers of unspoken conversation that we’ve yet to unravel.
But right now, her acknowledgment is a small victory—it’s an opening, and I intend to step through it.
I shuffle past Lily, the warmth of her home chasing away the chill from my bones. She closes the door with a soft click, and I turn to her, my hands fidgeting with the hem of my soaked jacket. “I’m trying; I am. But I’m having trouble, and I need your help to figure out how to get people to understand what I need.”
Lily doesn’t miss a beat, her directness as reliable as ever. With a tilt of her head, she motions me further into the house. We navigate through a hallway that feels like a cozy burrow, lined with framed pictures and handmade tapestries that tell stories without words. She leads me into the living room, which is an explosion of life and color.
Every surface seems to hold a story or a memory—a collection of artifacts that speak of Lily and Mercury’s shared existence. The floor is a labyrinth of pillow forts and stuffed animals, likely the remnants of their latest imaginative escapade. A cardboard pirate ship sits anchored near the window, its sails made from old curtains fluttering in the indoor breeze. Books are stacked haphazardly on shelves and tables, their spines exhibiting titles from philosophical treatises to vintage comic books.
