won’t let my guard down. A few moments of kindness will
not make me fall into your arms.”
She was right. Kindness hadn’t made her fall
into my arms. Sleep had. And, it would very likely do so again
because she still had dark circles under her eyes. She needed more
sleep…and food. But was unlikely to cooperate with either in her
current mood.
I stopped at the door and turned to look at
her to tell her what she wanted to hear.
“I don’t want you in my arms.”
“Liar.” She swung her legs off the bed and
stood. Marching to her bag, she yanked it off the chair.
“I don’t understand why you’re so angry.” If
she said she was hungry, though, I would completely understand.
She whirled on me, fury in her gaze.
“What’s to understand? I’m not safe. I’ll
never be safe again. I’m so tired, I have no idea how to help
myself, and I don’t know if I can trust you.”
Any trace of humor a decent night’s sleep had
left me vanished. Whatever she had seen or learned of us had
frightened her, and that angered me. I so badly wanted to help
chase away her fears and see her smile.
I took a step toward her, lifting my hand to
pull her to me, but she flinched. It hurt, but mostly the hurt was
for her. Letting my hand fall back to my side, I sighed.
“We can stay here longer so you can rest,” I
said.
She dropped the bag and threw her hands up in
the air in frustration.
“It won’t do any good. I’m reliving all our
past lives, mine and my sisters. I’ve been cut, beaten, starved,
raped, drowned, and even blinded,” she said, stressing each
horrific description of torture with an angry clip.
I didn’t quite understand what she meant—she
obviously wasn’t blind—but the idea that someone wanted to do any
of those things to her had my limbs shaking with the need to shift
and protect her.
“Every time I close my eyes,” she said
continuing, “I see more, and there’s no rest when that’s what I
see. When I wake, I’m just as tired as I was when I went to sleep.
And I don’t just see the past, I feel it. Every injury. Every
forced intimate moment. If I let myself dwell on it, I won’t ever
feel whole again.” She made a pained sound. “I’m not really sure I
do now. If I’ve ever had a happy past life, I don’t remember it.
Instead, I remember the pain, and death. Always death...”
Her voice hitched and tears started falling
freely. She continued to hold my gaze.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispered,
breaking me with her unspoken plea for help. “But if you’re here to
try to get me to choose you, you can’t have me. Even if it means I
have to die again.”
I growled, feeling angry yet completely
helpless to do anything about my anger. She thought she was
dreaming past lives where werewolves did unspeakable things to her.
I didn’t want to call her a liar—I knew better than to try to tell
a woman her beliefs were wrong—yet I had a hard time believing
someone could possibly live more than one life.
If it were true…if all those horrible things
had been done to her, she was holding me responsible for the
actions of the werewolf ghosts haunting her. It was easier to blame
the living than the dead. Where did that leave us? She was still
exhausted and didn’t trust me to hold her interests above my own as
a good Mate should.
Needing to escape her accusing stare, I
turned and yanked open the door. Wood splintered and the metal
warped under my hand. With too much force, I slammed the door
closed behind me and strode to the bike.
Her dreams were tormenting her, and she was
blaming me. It was an impossible scenario in which I couldn’t prove
myself. How could I possibly protect her from the past? The past
was done; there was no protection from it. A frustrated growl
escaped me. I just wanted her to feel safe with me.
Putting on my jacket, I zipped her shoes
inside then mounted the bike.
If she needed to sleep, I’d hold her for as
long as she needed so she slept well.
not make me fall into your arms.”
She was right. Kindness hadn’t made her fall
into my arms. Sleep had. And, it would very likely do so again
because she still had dark circles under her eyes. She needed more
sleep…and food. But was unlikely to cooperate with either in her
current mood.
I stopped at the door and turned to look at
her to tell her what she wanted to hear.
“I don’t want you in my arms.”
“Liar.” She swung her legs off the bed and
stood. Marching to her bag, she yanked it off the chair.
“I don’t understand why you’re so angry.” If
she said she was hungry, though, I would completely understand.
She whirled on me, fury in her gaze.
“What’s to understand? I’m not safe. I’ll
never be safe again. I’m so tired, I have no idea how to help
myself, and I don’t know if I can trust you.”
Any trace of humor a decent night’s sleep had
left me vanished. Whatever she had seen or learned of us had
frightened her, and that angered me. I so badly wanted to help
chase away her fears and see her smile.
I took a step toward her, lifting my hand to
pull her to me, but she flinched. It hurt, but mostly the hurt was
for her. Letting my hand fall back to my side, I sighed.
“We can stay here longer so you can rest,” I
said.
She dropped the bag and threw her hands up in
the air in frustration.
“It won’t do any good. I’m reliving all our
past lives, mine and my sisters. I’ve been cut, beaten, starved,
raped, drowned, and even blinded,” she said, stressing each
horrific description of torture with an angry clip.
I didn’t quite understand what she meant—she
obviously wasn’t blind—but the idea that someone wanted to do any
of those things to her had my limbs shaking with the need to shift
and protect her.
“Every time I close my eyes,” she said
continuing, “I see more, and there’s no rest when that’s what I
see. When I wake, I’m just as tired as I was when I went to sleep.
And I don’t just see the past, I feel it. Every injury. Every
forced intimate moment. If I let myself dwell on it, I won’t ever
feel whole again.” She made a pained sound. “I’m not really sure I
do now. If I’ve ever had a happy past life, I don’t remember it.
Instead, I remember the pain, and death. Always death...”
Her voice hitched and tears started falling
freely. She continued to hold my gaze.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispered,
breaking me with her unspoken plea for help. “But if you’re here to
try to get me to choose you, you can’t have me. Even if it means I
have to die again.”
I growled, feeling angry yet completely
helpless to do anything about my anger. She thought she was
dreaming past lives where werewolves did unspeakable things to her.
I didn’t want to call her a liar—I knew better than to try to tell
a woman her beliefs were wrong—yet I had a hard time believing
someone could possibly live more than one life.
If it were true…if all those horrible things
had been done to her, she was holding me responsible for the
actions of the werewolf ghosts haunting her. It was easier to blame
the living than the dead. Where did that leave us? She was still
exhausted and didn’t trust me to hold her interests above my own as
a good Mate should.
Needing to escape her accusing stare, I
turned and yanked open the door. Wood splintered and the metal
warped under my hand. With too much force, I slammed the door
closed behind me and strode to the bike.
Her dreams were tormenting her, and she was
blaming me. It was an impossible scenario in which I couldn’t prove
myself. How could I possibly protect her from the past? The past
was done; there was no protection from it. A frustrated growl
escaped me. I just wanted her to feel safe with me.
Putting on my jacket, I zipped her shoes
inside then mounted the bike.
If she needed to sleep, I’d hold her for as
long as she needed so she slept well.
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