Page 57 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
Or is it beside me?
A body picks me up, holds me. It is flesh. It is real. The skin is warm, the blood pumping.
But in my mind, all I see is the boy.
“Oh gods, Wendy, wake up!” the boy screams—but it isn’t his voice.
It’s Azaire’s.
Blood flows from the wounds along my arms. All the thorns breaking through. The boy rests his hands atop them.
I jerk up, eyes opening, breath ragged. I scan the world, searching for a bit of reality to hold onto.
All I can feel is the panic coursing through my chest. Like an intoxicating warmth, and it hurts.
It burns.
“Wendy,” the person with me says. He holds me. “Wendy, you’re okay.”
My head is cradled against a chest. Hands wrap around my hair. A chin settles there, pressing softly. Breath brushes through my scalp.
Gently, we rock back and forth together.
And slowly, in this person’s arms, the world comes back to me. I recognize the scent—the sweet edges of Azaire. The metallic essence of blood.
The thorns are pushing through the skin of my arms. I feel them beneath my clothes. There is no comfortable way to sit. No way to run from the excruciating nature of my power.
No way to bring the boy back without causing myself pain.
“No,”the boy replies to my thoughts, his words echoing in my mind.“Remember what I told you. Power is life, and life is all around.”
Azaire pulls back from me. He holds my cheeks in his hands, my hair scrunching beneath his grasp.
I realize I’m sitting between his legs—as close to a person as I’ve been in years.
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
But I don’t move.
“You weren’t—” Azaire takes a breath. “I thought you weren’t breathing.”
I raise an eyebrow, but I stare at him in awe. In awe at his relief that I’m alive. In awe of his caring.
Of his being.
Of his beauty.
“I suppose I’m stronger than I look,” I say.
“And aren’t I glad about it.”
He pulls me back into him without warning.
It feels good in his arms. Like a cold night at home, when Pa would build a fire and the whole family would sit around its warmth.
His heart hammers against me. It’s the small residue of his fear for my potential death.
I never thought anyone would care if I were to go.
