Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
I stared up at my ceiling fan and questioned all my life’s choices.
Specifically the choice to turn it off.
The whine had been keeping me awake. Then—because I am apparently a masochist—I couldn’t fall asleep without the whine. Because I was a fucking mess.
At four o’clock in the morning, I surrendered. I threw off the covers and stalked into the bathroom, flicking on the light like it had personally offended me.
My reflection stared back with Zarek stamped all over it. My hair smelled like him. My skin smelled like him. Even my hands smelled like him, because of course they did.
I needed to shower. A rational adult would shower.
Unfortunately, I was not that kind of adult at the moment.
I pressed my forehead to the mirror. “Of course this is where we’re at,” I muttered. “Needy to the nth degree.”
I went back to my bedroom and sank down into my bed, closed my eyes and pictured Zarek’s passionate smile.
Dammit!
I pulled my phone off my nightstand. 4:08 AM. Great, I’d manage to while away eight minutes.
Too early to call Zoe. Too early to call Maddie.
Too early to call Trenda, and definitely too early to call Evie or Piper, who were three hours behind me on the West coast. Aiden would find a creative and violent way to get rid of my body if I woke up his two boys and pregnant wife.
And Piper was still too young to handle the shit I was going through.
Which left me one option. Work.
I padded out to my drafting table and clicked on my lamp. The pool of warm light hit my boards, my pens, the clean page that had been mocking me for three days.
It was time.
The fandom had been frothing at the mouth for this arc for over a year.
Edith was frothing at the mouth, and had basically pushed me into a corner.
Even mild-mannered Max, Edith’s assistant publicist who almost never meddled had raised an eyebrow at the last planning call.
Yep, I had crossed the line into temperamental artist.
Fine.
Good.
If they wanted something, I’d deliver.
I planted my ass down in my chair and wiggled until I was sitting in just the right spot. Then I cracked my knuckles.
“Okay, you two. Time for sex. No making love for y’all. Nope, you get hot, sweaty, angry sex.”
Yep, this was the ticket. They’d been fighting the Kor armies, fighting the Wizard’s manipulations, fighting the very people they were trying to save. They were exhausted, frayed, and one wrong word away from shattering.
Angry sex would be cathartic. Primal. Explosive. A storyline payoff worthy of their arc.
I cracked my knuckles again. This time wincing.
I bent over and started. My pencil flew across the board, thumbnails coming to life. Nothing explicit—this was manga, not HBO—but the mood, the momentum, the intent. It started with a ravaging kiss. A push against a wall. Armor coming off. Need trumping logic.
Then…
Dammit!
Seris tugged at Kael’s ruined armor and he pulled it off. Underneath he was bruised and battered, dried blood at the collar, a welt blooming across his ribs. Her eyes glossed over with concern.
No! No! No! No!
We were not doing tenderness.
Kael cupped her jaw in his gloved hand, his expression softening. “You need to rest,” he murmured. “I’ll take first watch.”
“Stop it Kael,” I wailed to the empty walls of my apartment. “Just fucking stop it. Seris doesn’t need to rest. She needs you!”
Seris leaned in and kissed the bruise along his rib cage, slow and reverent, fingertips tracing the damage like a benediction. She couldn’t speak—her voice stolen years ago—but her actions screamed devotion.
I slammed my pencil down. “No! Stop it, Seris! You’re mad at him. Furious for the chances he’s been taking. Yeah, you know why he’s been putting his life at risk, but you can’t stand how he hasn’t seemed to care enough to come back to you whole and safe.”
I erased half the panel, jaw clenched.
This time, I gave Seris a fiercer expression, hair wild, eyes blazing. She grabbed a fistful of Kael’s hair and yanked his head down for a kiss that meant war, not comfort.
Better.
Then Kael threw off his gloves, cupped her cheeks and kissed her back, soft, whispering against her mouth, “You terrify me. If you won’t take care of yourself, then I’ll do it for the both of us.”
No! He wasn’t supposed to notice the magic she’d been exerting against the wizard. She’d been sure she’d kept it hidden.
Dammit! Where’s my angry sex?
They tumbled together into a gentler kiss, limbs tangled, armor clattering to the floor. The Sorceress’s shroud swept across them, veiling the page as their bodies merged into silhouette and magic.
I sat back and glared at the board.
“Goddammit,” I hissed. “That is so not angry sex!”
I checked my phone.
7:30 AM.
Good enough.
I hit Zoe’s contact.
She answered on the second ring with a voice that sounded like she’d been smoking two packs a day for forty years. “Somebody better be in an ambulance, that’s the only reason for such an early call. My store doesn’t open until eleven.”
“If I bring muffins and coffee from Java Jolt,” I said, “will I be forgiven for waking you up?”
There was a long pause. Then… “What kind of muffins?”
“A variety.”
“Sold. Get here fast.”
I smiled despite wanting to cry and started gathering my things.
Zoe was three muffins in by the time I reached the climax of my recounting, and I watched her demolish the blueberry like Ruby would never sell another one.
She wiped crumbs from her mouth and stared at me. “So, what you’re telling me is that you’re a slut.”
“Hey!” I threw a balled-up napkin at her. “Easy with the name-calling. I’m only a slut for my husband. Therefore, I’m not sure the term slut really applies.”
“Oh, it applies,” Zoe grinned, reaching for an apple cinnamon muffin. “Your morals did a full somersault.”
“Did you hear anything I said about the part where he’s still actively working on self-destruction?”
“Oh, I heard it.” Zoe sipped her coffee that she’d doused with four teaspoons of sugar. “I even heard the part where he accused you of fucking him to cure him, which was downright vicious.”
I sank back into my chair. “Yeah. It was,” I whispered. That still stung.
“He also said he loves you desperately,” she added. “Which does soften the blow slightly.”
Zoe had no right being this reasonable before 9 AM.
I picked at the lid of my coffee cup. “I don’t know what to do.”
She didn’t respond immediately. She let me squirm in the silence for a minute. It was rude. It was effective.
Finally, she said, “You can’t save him. You can let him know you’ll be there when he decides to save himself. That’s it.”
Deep down I knew that. Shit, it was the same conversation I’d had with my therapist during one of our last sessions. Maybe I should start going back to her, so I could figure out how to understand rock-headed men.
“But Zoe, he dragged me to get help,” I pointed out. “Literally. You were there when he damn near threw me in his truck and drove me to Dallas eight years ago. Shit you and Trenda stood and applauded.”
“We didn’t applaud. We just wished him well.”
“You were traitors.”
“It worked.”
“Remember when he booked me sessions with that therapist who looked like Santa Claus. Zarek would sit in the waiting room reading golf magazines while I cried to a stranger.”
“And he only did that after you showed signs you wanted help,” Zoe countered. “You started showering again. You started cooking again. You stopped pretending you weren’t drowning.”
Damn her for having a memory like a steel trap.
“Has Zarek shown any signs yet?” she asked.
I opened my mouth to answer her question, but I wasn’t sure.
Zoe reached across the table and gripped my hand. “Honey, he has. He really has. It was huge when he showed up to the barbeque. He participated. Making love to you? That was phenomenal.”
I smiled slowly. “It really was.”
“You’re right, he has. But I just don’t understand why he still feels it’s necessary to literally beat himself up for something that was totally out of his control. That’s not improvement.”
“You’re right. Something doesn’t smell right about that.”
“I’m going to talk to him again,” I decided.
“Just talk?” Zoe teased.
I sent her a death glare. She chewed another bite of muffin.
“What?” she asked, all faux innocence. “You seemed very motivated last night.”
“Stop,” I ordered.
“Go talk to your man,” she said. “You’re doing it right this time. You’re not dragging him. You’re letting him know you’re in his corner. And who knows…” Her grin sharpened. “Maybe you’ll get lucky again.”
I groaned into my coffee.
But I couldn’t deny it.
I was going back.
Whether I was ready or not.