Page 92 of Watch Me Burn
But not tonight. The excuse forms before I can stop it. She’s not ready. She’s still vulnerable from the miscarriage. Needs more time to process and heal.
But it’s all a lie. It’s been over two weeks. Her body has healed. Her emotional state improves daily. She’s the strongest woman I know and can handle the truth, even though it would devastate her. But I can’t make myself do it. I can’t force the confession out, because telling her means losing her.
And I can’t lose her.
Without Luna, I’m just what I’ve always been. A killer playing at humanity. A damaged thing my parents broke and never bothered to fix. She’s the first person who makes me believe I could be something more than the sum of my trauma and violence.
I squeeze her hand, the pressure gentle. Her lips curve into a smile in her sleep.
“I love you.”
The confession falls into the quiet room. Three words that have never crossed my lips. Never been offered to another soul. Never seemed possible until now.
She doesn’t hear me. But somehow, I hope she knows.
Chapter twenty-three
Luna
The water streams over my shoulders, hot enough to turn my skin pink. I tilt my head back and let it cascade over my face, washing away the sweat from my nightmare. The same one I’ve had every night since the miscarriage. Blood and wolf masks and empty cribs that morph into open graves.
I reach for my razor, propping my foot on the shower seat. The blade glides over my shin, and my stomach flips with anticipation. My appointment is this afternoon, and I already know what Dr. Ritchie will say. All clear to resume normal activities.
Normal activities.
As if anything about sex with my wolf can be called normal.
The bathroom door opens.
“Maren, I’m in the shower. Do you mind?”
“When has that ever stopped me?”
The toilet seat clatters down, and she settles onto it. I peek through the shower door. She dressed in her usual scrubs, her chocolate brown hair falling over her shoulders in curly waves.
Shit! When she wears her hair down and wild, she’s readying for battle. She clutches a mug of coffee in her hand like a lifeline, and her expression is serious. Too serious for seven in the morning.
“What’s wrong?”
“That’s my question.” She lifts the mug to her lips, her gaze tracking me through the clear glass. “You’re shaving your legs.”
“Yes. I do that periodically.”
“You haven’t shaved your legs in almost three weeks.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I know you. You get as furry as Shadow when you’re depressed.”
I drag the razor over my thigh in long, careful strokes. “That’s an exaggeration. And I’m not depressed. Talking to the counselor Dr. Ritchie referred me to has really helped.”
Her face softens through the glass. “And you went for a bikini wax yesterday when you were in Estes.”
“How the hell do you know all this?”
She takes another sip of her coffee, still staring at me. If it wasn’t Maren, it would be weird.
“Trina called when you were running late.”
