Page 2 of Snag
It was my instinct only a day ago now to reach for him, to lay my hand across his chest, to touch him exactly like this at our first meeting. Or what I thought to be our first meeting. I stopped myself for a multitude of reasons. Because I don’t touch easily. Because anyone remotely aware of what the energy roiling around me portends, or what the vibrant violet of my eyes indicates, is wary of my touch, of my mere attention.
I am a power in this world. And not by choice.
But even without the threads that should connect us, I felt that urge, that need to touch him. To connect us. I felt it, questioned it, and tried to ignore it.
I tear my gaze from his neck, from the wretched sadness in his gaze, and look at his hand. His right hand holding my left. I twist that hand, maintaining contact with his chest — and uncertain as to whether I can actually pull away right now. I brush my thumb across the scar on the pad of his thumb.
My teeth marks.
He shudders under my touch.
A sliver of warmth cracks through the grief that has numbed me from within. I’ve lost so much … and the framed photographs lining the walls of this otherwise empty room are a visual map of all that loss … yet …
Rought is standing here now, with me.
“You … loved me.”
“I love you,” he says, utterly intent.
The word, the steady assertion, fucking tears through me, taking the rest of my breath with it. And I welcome the sensation. I can’t remember a single person other than my mother who ever said those words to me. And truly meant them.
Then grief-fueled pain streaks through my head, through my eyes, and more tears take my sight.
No one loves me. No one truly can love me.
Because I’m not a person. Not really.
“I’m the Conduit now,” I say dully. “I’m not the girl in the pictures. The girl you loved.”
“Tell me about the threads,” he rasps, speaking through whatever emotion clogs his throat.
Confused by the topic change, I blink up at him. I’m still holding his hand. I should let him go. I know I should.
I don’t.
I don’t let him go.
It’s possible that I’m suddenly and irrevocably unable to let him go, not ever again.
“Do you mean threads that should bind us?” he asks, clarifying because I can’t find focus, can’t find my voice. “Actual essence that you can normally see? Tell me about those. And how we create new ones if those have been taken from us.”
My chin trembles as I struggle to not be overwhelmed by the magnitude of the loss he’s describing. “It’s not that … that’s not … it shouldn’t be possible to take those sorts of bindings. Even death … even the death of our physical vessel cannot … shouldn’t be able to snip those threads, those soul-deep connections … we should … if we’re … soul-bound mates are …”
He brings his free hand to my cheek, brushing away a tear while still barely touching me. “I will never, ever be dragged away from you again, Zaya. Half dead myself or banned from the property, I will never —”
“What do you mean?” A chill slithers down my spine, my tears drying in an instant. “Banned from the property?”
Rought snaps his mouth shut, grimacing.
“All this time,” I say, feeling as if I’m clawing through a thick fog that I can’t actually shift, can’t actually find clarity within. But still piecing it all together bit by bit. “You thought I was dead.”
“Yes.” He shakes his head. “No. I knew … my beast knew you weren’t.”
“You didn’t say anything.” My voice cracks. “Why?! Why wouldn’t you … and Rath … he … he must have recognized me?”
He exhales shakily. “You didn’t know me, Zaya. And I didn’t know why. I didn’t want to force anything that might cause further damage. I thought if I could show you, spend time with you, that maybe you’d remember me …” He swallows again, then shakes his head. “And Rath. That’s not for me to say or even to know.”
“Did you … were you involved in my death that summer?”
