Chapter 17 #2
It’s the perfect shock to my system, and I duck down until the water is lapping at my shoulders, my feet still firmly on the cave floor. Cold seeps into my flesh, sinking deep to my bones, and I relish the accompanying numbness, like the huge fucking idiot that I am.
“Akh…what are you doing?” Killan asks.
Running away again. “Swimming.” Something bumps against my legs, but it’s nothing more than a broken piece of stalagmite, half submerged, half floating.
“Swimming?” he repeats, sounding like he’s seriously considering the possibility that I’m insane.
Probably I am.
Briar and Harlee didn’t freak out when they developed feelings for Sorin and Roan.
They weren’t consumed with the idea of returning home to the detriment of their sanity.
They weren’t so haunted by their ideas of how they thought their lives should be that they fought tooth and nail against every single change—the big stuff and the small stuff.
I’m reacting to a simple kiss the same way I reacted to being abducted by aliens. One of those things shouldn’t be scary, but I’m breathing too fast, and my heart is thumping painfully in my chest.
I sink another few inches until cold water is lapping at my chin.
Killan pushes himself to his feet.
“Don’t get up,” I scold. “You need to rest.”
“In a moment,” he says, repeating what is rapidly becoming the most annoying thing anyone has ever said to me. And he can’t even say it with enough conviction to make it half believable.
If ever I needed proof that Killan hasn’t lied to me, this is it. A toddler would be able to spot the difference.
He kicks off his boots, his movements slow and measured, as if they cost him energy he doesn’t have. Then he walks into the water. When he sinks to his knees, his head and shoulders remain far above the surface.
He doesn’t come too close, just sits beyond arm’s reach, steadily watching me.
I honestly don’t know how he has the patience. He’s a fucking saint.
It’s a shame, really, that he’s stuck with me. I pride myself on so many things—my strength, my toughness, my stubbornness. But right now, all of those are my biggest weaknesses. Because they’re stopping me from doing the one thing I want.
“If I were you, I’d be thoroughly sick of me.” I am sick of me.
I’m not the easiest person to get along with.
I’ve always known that. In fact, I remember being surprised Lucas fell in love with me when he did.
I hardly had any free time to date, working at Rolling Scones six mornings a week, starting at four a.m., and then going to bed each night at five p.m. But he was one of the few people I met who found my need to plan ahead for every situation endearing instead of infuriating.
It matched his need to keep safe and to never take unnecessary risks—at least, until I started planning my bakery, and then he got cold feet, and I left.
“Never,” he says. “You are the most interesting thing that has happened to me.”
The light from my stolen wall sconce bounces off the water and reflects off the cave walls so that the shadows dance around Killan and me.
It accentuates the curves of his horns, encircling his head like a crown.
He could claim to be the king of this planet, and I’d believe him.
He’s majestic like a king. And he issues orders like a king.
“Do you ever think I’ll get home?” I lie back, floating and staring up at the ceiling. It’s easier to ask when I’m not looking directly at him. “Truthfully.”
“Truthfully—” The word is followed by a heartbreakingly long pause. “No. But not for lack of trying.”
I’m not surprised. I’m not even surprised by my lack of surprise.
This whole time I’ve been running away from the truth, but it was bound to catch up with me sooner or later.
“Sometimes I worry that I’ve been pretending to myself that I want to return home as an excuse—” I hate the way my voice bounces off the cave walls, magnified.
He doesn’t say anything. He’s giving me the space I need. Like he always does.
“Sometimes…” I clear my throat. “Sometimes I think I’m using it as an excuse because I’m scared of admitting how easy it would be to start a brand-new life here. Because what does that say about my old life that it’s so easy to give up?”
I sit up because I suddenly want to see his face. I want to know if he’s judging me.
He’s looking directly at me, as if he’s been watching me this entire time. Sure, he’s scowling, but it’s a small scowl. Such a small scowl it’s basically the Killan version of a smile.
“You are not giving up,” he says. “Your old life was stolen from you, and you are mourning what you have lost.”
“Mourning,” I repeat the word, mulling it over. It does kind of fit how I’ve been feeling. “I’m mourning my bakery,” I say, testing it out. “I’m mourning my old relationships.”
“You are mourning the idea you had of your future.”
“Yeah, I think I am.” Breaststroke style, I swim close enough that I can wrap my arms around his neck. It’s as easy as I thought it would be. There isn’t any moment of hesitation when I worry about whether he wants me to hold him. It feels achingly familiar, being in his arms.