“What is it?”
“My life.” A gnarled-up sound escapes from her tightening throat, her words barely squeezing out.
“A life in a box doesn’t seem like a life at all.” Trying to make things lighter. It doesn’t work. She seems to be weighted down more than she already is.
“It’s letters. I wrote to them, to you.” Words cease after that; she’s crying again. Shaking.
I shake with her. Holding her to me. She allows this.
“I’m so scared.”
“I know you are, but nothing will happen to you. I promise you’ll be fine. I’m going to be at your side the whole time.”
She cries harder, staining my shirt in tears and snot. I’m afraid that even the act of crying is wearing her out too much. Her body is barely holding on to life.
A grunt comes from Kennedy, and she clutches her belly. “It’s time, Cassius.” Her eyes are wild, afraid. The Wild within the marrow of my bones rumbles his support. He makes it known he is here with her as well.
“It’s time.”
“Don’t forget about the box.” Her hand clutches my wrist, squeezing it.
“I won’t forget, because you’ll remind me. Let’s go.” Walking down the stairs, she takes them one at a time.
The ride to the clinic is fast. Tires grind along the asphalt road, everything passing in a blur.
Another grunt through teeth consumes the inside of the car. Calling my mother, I tell her it’s time. I throw the phone as soon as the call is made.
“My parents are on their way.”
Kennedy doesn’t say a word. Her lips are still hard-pressed, and sweat beads at her temples, wetting her hair.
Once the car stops, I’m out and scoop Kennedy up in my arms. She’s light, without any meat to cling on her bones. Fear creeps in, a whispering dark thought that this isn’t going to go well cannibalizing all other good thoughts.
“We need help.” I kick open the door. We are met with the midwife’s eyes. They go big, but she’s calm.
The clinic smells clean until a gush of blood comes from between my mate’s legs. Kennedy gnashes her teeth from side to side. I hear the grind of them.
“Put her down here. I’m going to get the doctor.” Laying her down on the bed, a wave of blood pushes outward, spilling on the floor. I can hear the drips leaking off the sheets. One drop after the other.
“Help us!” I scream. Both the doctor and the midwife come into the room. They look at each other. Grim-faced, hard as stone.
“Cassius…” Kennedy grips my hand. Our eyes lock onto each other as the doctor cuts the skirt and her underwear away from her body.
She takes in a breath; her face holds the pain.
The muscles of her body shake.
Kennedy arches her back upwards. A low moan trembles out of her half-open mouth. A cry leaves mine.
“We need the tray.” Murmured words come out fast from a doctor who looks concerned.
“The tray?” The midwife holds her eyes to the doctor before she nods her head.
“What’s going on?” I try to speak, try to hold Kennedy’s hand, which has lost its grip on mine.
“We need to be prepared to take them out of her if she can’t push them out.” He’s between her legs, and the midwife is now on the other side of Kennedy.
“We need you to try and push your babies out.” His order comes out, short, crisp. The bed converts to a chair, the bottom sliding away. Kennedy’s legs shake with the exertion to push.
“Look at me, Kennedy. You need to push them out of you.” Wiping away her sweat, she’s bitten her tongue, and her mouth fills with blood. Her teeth are stained red as she lifts her lips up, grunting with effort.
“I can’t.” Her head is shaking side to side.
“Yes, you can. Don’t give up. Fight. Push them out of you.” I want to scream except my lungs can’t pull in enough air. I’m feeling strangled. She’s losing her life in front of my eyes.
Blood on top of blood.
Her chest heaves. “Why did you turn off the lights?” A calm question comes from a mouth that is hanging open. Eyes dilating.
The bed eases down. She’s no longer in a squatting position.
Everything blurs. It’s too fast, too slow. I can’t see because she is slipping away. I can see her fading light in my eyes. Through my vision. Even knees hitting the floor don’t really register. My nose is pressed against her cheek. Eyes pinched shut.
“Do something!”
“They are.” My mom’s hands are on my shoulder.
I can’t look at her. Only her voice breaks through my cries.
Her heart is racing, pounding in my ears. Thready, not normal.
“She’s in v-fib.”
“It’s time.” I can hear the scrape of silver against the metal tray. I press my lips to her ear.
“I love you.” I repeat it to Kennedy over and over again. She doesn’t say it back. Her body relaxes.
My mother cries. Her hand never leaves my shoulder, squeezing while I’m tearing in half. No one tells me to stop shaking her. “Try harder! Fight for them!” I yell over and over again.
I don’t open my eyes, even when her heart stops. I don’t open my eyes when the first cries hit my ears, followed by another distinct cry. I rock her head in my hands, holding onto her until the warmth slips away. The mark on my neck ignites fire until that feeling is burned away. I don’t get off my knees. I don’t look, can’t listen.
I just can’t.
Chapter 1
Memories in the Color of Mint
Treajure
Whiskey blurs his sight.
Stumbling over his feet, Cassius makes his way over to the wall. He sways with hands dug deep into his pockets, looking at her picture.
A mouth full of mumbled apologies flare up into his fire. Sometimes his words are soaked in a red rage where anger runs rampant in his veins to greet her face. There are times when it’s blue, and he chokes and drowns on his own tears, dropping to his knees before he wipes his eyes on the edge of his sleeve.
There are times he chooses to feed all the darkest of his demons. He thinks he’s a monster; I think he’s broken.
Sometimes memories are the color of mint: sweet, loving, but tones into jealousy. Why Cassius likes mint is confusing, because he never liked mint in his tea. That was one of the few things they never did together.
Staying quiet, I get to witness his confessions to the picture on the wall. Does he know I’m not deaf? Just voiceless.
“Specs, why aren’t you sleeping?” A slight slur, hardly noticeable.
It’s always one way between us. He asks the questions, and I listen. He will sometimes answer for me; only rarely does he ever answer his own questions. I prefer when he answers; that way there isn’t anything left unanswered between us.
I know everything about Cassius Denver Valentine, and he knows everything he’s already answered about me. I was raised in the Wilds of Valentine, where my voice was stolen by an evil jealous queen, but one day soon, he thinks the magic will come and let me talk once again. He likes to make up these magical stories when I sleep underneath his bed. So far everything he’s made up about me has been wrong.
There is no belief in magic anymore. I thought playing pretend was over for me, but when I look at Cassius, I want to play pretend again. Where he is the magic, and I’m his wish.
Regarding the picture again, his hand pulls out from his deep pockets. Dry blood coats his fingers, and the dirt clings underneath his nails. There is a hint of mint below the whiskey of his breath.
He’s been to the cemetery.
Kennedy’s grave will never be forgotten by him. His wish would never be wasted on me.
“Why are you still up so late, Specs?” A shrug of my shoulder. What I don’t say is that I wanted to be here when you got home from the party. I know exactly where to sit to be discreetly away to give him space when he comes into this room to look at her, but when he turns, he’ll see me. I wan
t him to see me with my red earrings on.
“Couldn’t sleep, could you? Me either.” He’s back at looking at her. Raising his hand again, almost to touch her face. Almost.
There’s old blood on Cassius’s hand. He won’t pick up the twins when blood still clings to the webbing between his fingers. He won’t let them see him with his own blood that sticks to him like a second skin. I see the blood. I always understand the blood. He doesn’t care that I see it. For some reason, he doesn’t hide it from me. Do I want to ask him why he must always bleed? I want to wash his blood from his hands, kiss his knuckles, and tell him you don’t have to suffer to make yourself feel better. You’ve already bled yourself enough.
“I met someone tonight, Treajure.” It’s instant; my face feels shocking cold the way ice water feels when it’s been splashed on my face. I could choke on my own icy shiver. Cassius seems to focus better now. His sway is steadier while a sway hits me. Fear chases at the beat of my heart. Pumping the blood in my ears, suffocating all other sounds away.
Do I want to ask who? I can’t ask, preferring to stay entirely still. It’s a balance to keep the quick shine out of my eyes and a sob from coming out the middle of my throat, but then again—I’ve had practice with keeping all my sounds silent.
“She reminds me of Kennedy.” His eyes seem love-starved. “Her name’s Hazel.” I start to taste something bitter, not the mint his breath holds. “She thinks I’m homeless.” He gives a small laugh as he scratches at his beard that hasn’t been trimmed in a while.
Turning from him, I can feel the way my top lip presses flat against the bottom lip. She wouldn’t know but that’s all of Cassius’s layers, the hair, beard, several shirts, ring, watch, he uses layers to protect himself from the world.
“She’s irritating.” He goes on with things I have no interest in. “She has beautiful eyes.” His voice lowers reverently. I have to push up my glasses that start to slip down the bridge of my nose.
Cassius steps closer to me before stumbling—long rough fingers curl around my waist. “Shhh,” he says, with whiskey-minted breath to himself, because I didn’t make the sound.
Sounds a dangerous thing…
The coarse hair on his face reminds me his soft lips are close to mine. The feeling of him this close will linger long after he’s asleep. To him this is nothing. To me, it’s everything.
Closing my eyes, I lean back slightly into him while he bends himself around my body.
“Are you going to try to sleep in your bed tonight, Specs?” He waits for a different answer than the one I always give him. I shake my head no.
He sighs. “One day you’re going to have to sleep in your own bed and not underneath mine.” My shoulders curl in from what he says. If I try to sleep in the bed they bought for me, I’ll never sleep again. There’s no safety on top of the bed, only underneath it. Cassius keeps me safe with his body over mine between the mattresses and wooden bed frame.
“I’ve met someone, Specs. Her eyes…” He says it like a prayer, but I feel the sin of this tragedy. Not the words I was expecting tonight. My mouth opens with wanting to say, “I’m happy for you,” but I just can’t get the sound out.
His chin rests on the edge of my shoulder. He’s all brimstone and fire, and I’m, I’m the ash that’s been left over from the way he burns through me.
Letter 1
Dear Cash,
Today is the first day I stopped hating you. I don’t look at your face and hate it. I don’t look at your hands and hate them.
I don’t like you, but I don’t hate you. The more I think about it, the more I feel sorry for you. You didn’t really stand a chance with me. Not because you aren’t strong, or capable, or anything else. You just aren’t Clayton.
That’s the sad fact. You could never be him, ever.
This isn’t to make you feel bad, it probably will make you feel bad reading this, but I want you to understand me and understand why I can’t love you the way you want me to accept and love you.
You did a lot of shitty things to me, Cash. A lot.
You let your anger get the best of you, and you took it out on me. Me too. I let my anger get the best of me as well. I said and did some really shitty things to you. Really shitty things. You aren’t a weak wolf. You aren’t all those things that I yelled at you. I was just upset, just like you were upset. We were shit to each other.
Don’t let your anger get the best of you. You’re better than that. Remember that.
I hated you for a long time. I hated you touching me because I felt as if I was cheating on Clayton with how much I loved the way your skin feels on my skin. He tried to tell me about the mate bond when Rya came back, how he was trying to fight the pull. How when he looked at her, he felt as if he was cheating on me. I didn’t understand what he was saying to me. I told him just don’t look at her. He shook his head and told me he can’t stop looking at her. I cried, and he held me and told me how sorry he was. He was trying to fight it, he was trying to fight the bond, but he felt himself losing himself to it.
I didn’t understand how hard it was for him to fight for me, fight for us. He tried so hard, he tried so hard for me. And look at me. I’m pregnant, not by him, but by you.
Now I know what he was feeling. I can’t look away from you. I feel as if I am losing myself to the bond and that I am cheating on him. I feel guilty. I feel shame that I’ve only been with you for a small amount of time and I can’t control myself around you. That all I want is to slide up against you, to have your arms hold me, let my cheek rest against your chest, but I still love Clayton.
I’ve stopped hating you, Cash. Today I’ve stopped hating you. Instead, I’ve started to hate myself for failing Clayton. All those years he fought against the bond for me and here I am with someone else’s pups implanted deep in my belly.
You’re my mate, but he’s everything to me. Always will be.
So today is the day that I’ve stopped hating you. This isn’t your fault. I blamed you. I blamed you for losing him. I blamed Rya for losing him. I blame the Moon for it all.
No one is to blame but me. I’m to blame, not anyone else.
I might not be able to love you, Cash, but I can’t hate you either.
Kennedy.
Chapter 2
Mint turns into Wildflower Bruises
Waking up in a silent room is not something I like. For a moment, everything freezes into a stillborn breath.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Muscles start to seize up before they relax and realize I’m underneath the bed—not on top of one.
Cassius’s discarded shirts are within reach. My fingers extend to pull the material to my nose like a sin. Inhaling like a true prayer.
My sanctuary in scent.
The fabric rubs between my fingers; the smell of him fills my pores. Shielded from prying eyes, inhaling again and again to make each breath count. Pretending it’s his neck I have my nose against. My hand shoves down over the top of the material of my underwear. Fingers press, rub…not my fingers, but his. It’s so easy to imagine. To pretend…
I’m not sure how I’ve gotten to this point, me under his bed touching myself when he leaves in the morning and pretending it’s him. Before Cassius, I’ve never dreamed of wanting to touch myself, but with his scent wrapped around me, soft as a blanket in the quietest kind of strength, I’d let myself play pretend with the image of him.
The heat grows underneath the bed, throbbing heat, imagining his naked body, bare and pressed against mine. It’s as if I can feel the weight of him. I want to make him moan the way I just did—all throat.
His shirt is in my mouth. I can taste him, teeth clamp down as my hand rubs between my legs, imagining it’s his finger, thick and searching. The sensation is almost unbearable now. Biting down on the fabric. No noise.
Clutching my breast, squeezing the nipple until it hurts. Pain. This pain I crave. Shifting my legs, pushing into the slickness. Another low moan deep in my throat—
eyes squeezed shut. I can see his face; it hovers above me. I’m making him shake the way my thighs are.
Moving my legs wider apart, letting out a hard breath.
Fingers tracing between my folds, pushing into the fabric before touching the spot that arches my back and demands to be rubbed faster, harder.
“Hmmm.” The sound comes out with teeth clamped down on the material that smells of Cassius, that was against his bare chest. I can taste him…
Inside and out, the heat pulses. My pulse rages.
I can see Cassius in my mind; his eyes push my fingers faster, harder. The unbearable pleasure gaining strength. Trembling and twisting hips, arching back. My breast held tight by my own hand, pretending Cassius is the one palming it. It’s enough for the pause, that beautiful moment where everything is still and nothing matters before the first hard clench of my inner walls release the breath that I was holding.
I come with his name on my lips, but the sound stuck in my throat.
I’m still biting the shirt as the gentle aftershocks of pulses wave through my core.
Clenching, unclenching until I can move from underneath the bed.
I smell of sex with myself, and I have to open the window and take his shirt and my things out of his room to go into mine.
My bed’s made up perfectly; nothing is out of place. It seems too cold in here, not like Cassius’s room that’s the perfect temperature.
The blinds are drawn down. It’s a shadowed room. Not meant for anything else but to hold my clothes. The Luna thought that if they made my room bright I’d sleep in the bed, if they darkened the room I’d sleep in the bed, had a TV, music, but nothing worked. I should have told them this, but I couldn’t seem to get the words out that are stuck behind clenched teeth.
The day I fell asleep in the oatmeal is the day Cassius finally relented and let me sleep underneath his bed until my Belac comes back. He grumbled about how weird it was. How he’s not going to be able to fall asleep, ever. I drifted off to him complaining underneath his breath. The first real sleep I had in seven days.
The Wildflower Series Page 53
