Page 82 of Vengeful King

I can’t walk away from her.

* * *

Katrina

I don’t want to wake up.

I realize it’s morning slowly, but I keep my eyes stubbornly shut. I don’t want to face reality, though I can feel it bearing down on me like sunlight through a crack in the curtains.

My mother is dead.

I keep shoving the thought to the back of my mind, but it comes forward every time, refusing my attempts to ignore it. I squeeze my eyes shut even harder and try to focus on where I am.

I’m in Lachlan’s bed. I slept beside him all night, trying to cling to his presence to block out everything that’s happened. I don’t remember when we ended up there or how I finally fell asleep; I only know his body was beside mine all night, and I tried desperately to feel like that was all I needed.

I still feel hungover on grief, exhausted. My body is sore, my eyes dry from crying. I can feel a headache forming at the front of my forehead, stress and sadness overwhelming.

Yesterday feels like a terrible dream.

It feels like a nightmare, but I know it’s real. I know the haze over the memories isn’t a dream fog; it’s the thick confusion of shock. The truth still hasn’t fully hit me yet.

Lachlan is still beside me. I can feel his warmth, smell his familiar soap and cologne. I feel him wake up, too. I feel his arms strong around me, pulling me tighter into his embrace.

I know he’s trying to ground me. He’s giving me comfort, as much as I feel like I don’t really deserve it.

“I feel like it’s my fault. It’s my fault that my mother died,” I say. The words are almost a whisper; I don’t even know why I said them at all. But I did, and the words keep coming. “If I hadn’t got mixed up in all of this, she wouldn’t have been a target.”

I didn’t let myself think about it before. Now, lying in the silence of the morning, the light leaves nowhere for me to escape to. I’m curled in on myself, shielding my body from invisible blows I can’t stop. Blows coming from my own mind.

I believe what I said. Part of me believes it so much that I couldn’t stop the words from coming out.

I killed my mother.

If I had been smarter, if I’d been better, if I’d done everything right—all those thoughts swirl in my head, coming back to the surface like an oil spill on water. I worked so hard to not think about them last night, but they’re present once again.

Lachlan’s embrace tightens. I can feel his arms flex around me; I know he’s reacting to the confession.

“You got mixed up in all of this because you were working so hard to provide for her. To take care of her,” he says, his voice low and rough with sleep. “From the moment I knew, I was impressed. You’re dedicated to the people you love. It’s incredible.”

I turn to look at him. He lets me shift in his arms; I find his eyes and gaze into them. He’s not lying, but I didn’t think he was anyway—he has no reason to. He has no reason to care about me or my mother’s death at all.

But he does. He does care, and I can’t really explain it.

I just know I need him more than ever, and I can’t help the pull I feel toward him. So I don’t stop myself when I fall into him, fall into a kiss.

It’s deep, slow and sensual in a way I didn’t quite expect. I feel like I’m losing myself in it, and I think he is, too. But the longer it lasts, the more heat I feel, the more need builds up.

It’s a welcome distraction from the pain and loss I’ve been feeling. A small part of me is guilty for letting need overcome my grief. But another part of me recognizes that I can’t just ignore every feeling I have, and I can’t just wallow in the darkness.

My mother has been dying a long time, and the feelings I’ve had about her condition are too messy and complex to keep in neat little boxes. I have to let myself remember that I’m alive, that this isn’t all my fault.

So maybe I’m a mess of sadness and exhaustion, but that doesn’t mean I won’t let myself feel what I feel for Lachlan.

I push against him, grind against his cock. I feel my pulse race, my heart pound. I want to let go. I let my mind drift and try not to think about anything but now, what I’m feeling.

“You want it,” he says, his voice low in my ear. “Don’t you? You want me to fuck you again.”

I don’t answer. I know he knows what I need; I don’t need to say anything. His words only make the fire in me flare, the heat seeping through me. I want him and I’m not going to deny it.

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