Chapter 29 Silva #4
“Here’s what’s important for you both to understand.
Complex trauma is absorbed by the nervous system.
It’s held in the body. So, Silva, when you lean in, not only is Tate leaning out because of your differing attachment styles, but he also experiences a nervous-system pullback.
His entire body is screaming that you make him vulnerable, and the situation is unsafe.
And that nervous system response will kick in without his conscious approval.
So I’m very glad to hear that you’ve done a lot of work during your separation and no longer need that validation from him specifically.
Because now we can re-center where responsibility for the trauma regulation needs to exist.”
Her eyes landed directly on Tate. I knew this wasn’t all my fault.
He was quiet when they left, once the hour was over. Zola had given him a workbook, regulation strategies that involved eye movement, assuring him that once he started the process of identifying and regulating his trauma triggers, it would get easier.
“And find yourself a project,” she stressed. “Because your family can’t fill that hole.”
“If only she knew my trauma trigger was being stabbed in the fucking eye.” He glared down at her as they crossed the parking lot hand-in-hand. “You seem very pleased with yourself, dove.”
“Oh, I am,” Silva assured him. “Two weeks ago, I thought everything was my fault.” Her laughter cascaded across the concrete as he swung her around by the elbow, catching her in his arms.
“I could’ve told you that wasn’t the case from the start, Silva.”
His voice was soft, and her brow furrowed as she hooked her arms around his neck, not liking that he was blaming himself. She didn’t want to be the reason . . . but neither did she want it to be him. Why does there have to be one person at fault?
“I mean, some of it is my fault. I haven’t been very clear on what I want. It’s been . . . harder than I thought. Having you back. Sharing her. I guess you could say I’ve been sending mixed messages.”
He screwed up his face as if he was thinking, his head tipping back and forth. “Let’s say sixty/forty.”
“I guess that’s fair. I’m glad we’re doing this.”
“Aye, I am as well. She deserves better.” He was, at long last, able to bend over enough to reach her mouth, which he did as she tugged him down to meet her lips. “I thought we were taking things slow, Silva.”
“This is slow,” she assured him, meeting his lips once more.
She replayed the conversation with Zola in her bed that night, thinking it all through. When she doesn’t seek her validation from you, you feel unwanted and retreat.
That didn’t sit right with her. Not at all.
Silva didn’t want to go back to that anxious, insecure elf she’d once been.
She didn’t want to be constantly chasing him to no avail .
. . but the thought of leaving him unclear on where he stood no longer seemed tolerable.
She’d made up her mind, at last. He literally killed someone to get back to you.
Maybe it will be different this time. You’re different.
He can be different, too. Silva considered that taking it slow could be interpreted in different ways. And only you can decide which is right.
* * *
They were taking things slow.
That’s what she kept reminding herself. You’re taking it slow, she told herself as she leaned over the enameled Dutch oven he’d brought with him that night, inhaling the aroma of the thick stew within.
It smelled as close to what she had been served in winter as she could remember.
They were taking it slow, she reminded herself when Aelin cheered, delighted to have her winter soup at last, enough for that night and a dozen nights more.
“There are no skane on this side of the veil,” he explained, “but beef is a close enough approximation.” Parsnips, turnips, and carrots, stewed apples, onions, and a tuber that resembled potatoes.
All cooked in a dark gravy made from beef fat and black ale, cooked low and slow until the gravy was thick and the meat was falling apart.
“And how did you even know?” Silva asked as Aelin demanded a second helping in her tiny bowl. “If you’ve never had it before, how did you even know what was in it?!”
“Because they don’t grow much,” he laughed shortly.
“It’s a process of elimination, really. The harvest is in Autumn.
Spring and Summer have their fill enough, but .
. . you’ve been there, Silva. You saw what it’s like.
Winterkin make do with what they have, but it’s not much.
Makes sense that it’s a stew. Can’t imagine skane being anything but tough, especially in that climate.
But anything turns tender if you cook it long enough. ”
There was something in the way he said that last bit that made Silva shiver. She didn’t think she wanted to know what else Tate was familiar with cooking on the other side of the veil.
It was a Friday evening, not normally a day he spent with them, but she’d invited him to do so mid-week.
They were taking it slow, she reminded herself as he sat on her tiny living room floor in front of the low coffee table, playing a board game with their daughter that involved rolling a four-sided dice to determine how many bones to feed to a little mechanical dog at the center of the board.
On the second round of the game, Aelin insisted Silva play as well, and she found herself perched on the floor across from him, exclaiming in exasperation as she rolled the skip side of the dice two times in a row.
Aelin laughed so hard at Silva’s pique that there was a full minute of her doubled over giggling before the game could continue, Tate threatening to take her turn.
It had felt so normal, so much like a little family, that her heart had begun to thud in her chest, the change in blood pressure nearly making her dizzy. Are you family? Of course we are.
They were taking it slow when he followed Aelin out the back door to visit their little backyard, her domain.
She wanted a birdfeeder, she told him, so that the little chipmunk who lived in Dynah’s drain spout might come and nibble seed off the ground.
Tate suggested a climbing structure or swing set, to which she clapped her hands in giddy approval.
Silva had no doubt he’d have one or both erected before the summer arrived.
Aelin led him by the hand to the overgrown patch of pachysandra and periwinkle, telling him she wanted to grow flowers so that pixies and butterflies would come to the yard in the summer months.
She reminded herself when he scooped Aelin up, pretending to eat her side, making her shriek in uncontrolled laughter.
An unrestrained, joyous laughter that Silva wasn’t sure she’d ever heard from her daughter before, realizing just how damaging those first two and a half years of her life had been.
They were taking it slow, she told herself as he read Aelin a story, adjusting the character voices to her demands, making her giggle again. Taking it slow as he accepted her hug around the neck, kissing her forehead once she was tucked in, before relinquishing the rest of bedtime duties to Silva.
Slow was the only way to fix what had been broken, to find their way forward.
That didn’t explain why she kicked off her panties, toeing them into her open bedroom before continuing down the hall to find him in the kitchen, already having located storage containers for the stew, washing the heavy enamel pot in the sink.
It didn’t explain why she pressed against him at the sink, her cheek against the middle of his back, breathing him in, sliding her arms around his narrow waist. Didn’t explain why, when he turned, his hands still wet, she had her palms against his chest, running down the length of his long body, his arms, his thighs.
She remembered that very first night in the Plundered Pixie when she had been a mouse.
She hadn’t been able to stop herself from touching him then, either.
That didn’t explain why she tugged on his shirt, forcing him down to meet her lips, until he yelped in pain. Too far. He was still healing. We both are.
He lifted her to perch on the counter, instead, putting her at nearly equal height to him, tugging his shirt until she’d captured his lips with her own.
His tongue was a hot glide against hers, the heat of his mouth at once familiar and brand-new, his teeth at her lips making her gasp against him until they broke apart.
He’d desired her once. She didn’t need to climb into him anymore .
. . but she needed to know that he still did.
“I thought we were taking things slow, Silva.” His voice was a low hum at her temple, nosing into her hair.
“We are,” she assured him, pushing him away, raising her toes to alight on his shoulder, pressing until he slowly dropped to his knees before her.
His laughter was a dark chuckle against the inside of her thigh as he pushed her legs open easily, finding her wet and ready. “Very slow, clearly.”
Her head dropped back at the first touch of his tongue, just the tip of it, ghosting up her slick folds, lips and tongue kissing the lips of her sex exactly the way he’d done to her mouth just a few minutes earlier.
Silva closed her eyes, sinking her fingers into his silky hair as he began to lick her, setting a rhythm he already knew she liked.
When the sex is so good, you let him get away with anything.
She remembered thinking that forever ago, remembered castigating herself for being so weak, for letting his poor behavior slide when he licked her clit so well.
She was willing to let it slide again, she realized, moaning weakly. He had been gone for five years, and it had been five years since anyone had gone down on her with this much skill and enthusiasm.