Chapter 19 Maeve
MAEVE
Ilook around the open office, both relieved and unsettled that George isn’t here yet.
The space is flooded with warm, natural light, the kind that’s deliberately set up to soothe even the most damaged mind.
But right now, it feels wrong. The usual softness to the comforting space feels jarring to my current mood.
“I miss the shadows,” I mutter, and my chromius snorts at the lie.
I’m so fucking tired—a bone-deep kind of exhaustion that won’t leave. I barely slept last night, even with Ari there for support, because of my selfish brain not knowing how to be quiet.
And now I’m here, waiting for my therapy appointment that I truly regret making. I don’t fancy spending my first morning back in the Pride baring my soul to the man who can pull back my layers, one by one, to get to the truth buried deep inside.
Dr Abbott is a good man.
Which is why I feel guilty for the small, treacherous part of me that wishes he were dead.
My chameleon shakes her head in derision.
I don’t care.
If the good doctor was dead, I’d get to avoid this session, and the uncomfortable honesty that is bound to come with it.
Ari and Nora both suggested making an appointment, reminding me of the ways he’s helped in the past.
Dr Rush called, and he was excited about having my notes and a line of contact with Dr Jones—the slimy bitch. Annoyingly, though, he reminded me that they were waiting on Dr Abbot’s approval before I could start the birth control.
Even that prompt was something I chose to ignore.
It wasn’t until Lucifer mentioned George was free today that I took the plunge into making an appointment with him.
“Stupid, idiotic girl,” I mutter, drifting over towards the window.
We’re high enough that no one can really see me—just a blur of hair and skin tone—but I can watch the city below move on without me.
People living their best lives. Breathing. Existing. Smiling.
Like nothing is wrong. Like their lives are perfect.
I’m jealous of a fucking illusion.
The door opens behind me, and I don’t bother turning to greet him. The soft hum gives him away.
“Hello, Maeve,” Dr Abbott says gently. “I do apologise that you’ve had to wait for me. I meant to speak with Dr Rush before we began, but he’s had a hectic day.”
I glance over my shoulder. “It’s not even ten in the morning.”
Dr Abbott smiles. “I know. Dr Rush started at midnight last night.”
I gag, and he laughs.
He settles into his armchair, straightening the red cushion behind him, before picking up my file. I watch him in the window’s reflection. When his pen clicks, something in my chest tightens.
He’s ready for whatever trauma I want to lay at his feet.
It’s a shame for him I have no fucking idea where to start.
“How are you feeling today?” he asks when I make no move to speak.
“I don’t think I’m feeling anything,” I lie. The words taste ashy in my mouth, almost like it’s full of cotton.
His brow lifts, unimpressed.
Asshole.
It’s almost like he cares about my fragile mental state.
I repeat—asshole.
“Numb is still a feeling we can explore, Maeve,” he says mildly. “What are you hoping to get out of today’s session?”
I sigh and force myself into the chair opposite him, ignoring the way my body protests.
My anxiety has been simmering all morning, and small actions like sitting in this chair feel like proof. Proof that I’m still not normal. Proof that I’m still… this much of a fucked up mess.
“I’ve… I had to suffer through a session with Dr Jones while I was stuck on the compound,” I mention.
His nostrils flare, just briefly. The strong scent of burnt marshmallow, smoke curling around a campfire, betrays his anger for a brief moment before he controls it.
He’s on my side.
The relief that floods me is embarrassing, and I hate myself for it. I’d blame the creature if I could, but she’s far too smug to have worried about his reaction.
“I’m feeling a little fragile because of it,” I add, finding it easier to be honest.
He hasn’t betrayed me. Not like—
No.
Not today. I’m not dredging up problems with the men in my life.
I can’t.
I’m enough of a cliché as is.
“I’m sorry that was forced upon you,” he says.
I shrug. “She wasn’t awful-awful. I find I resent being here just because…”
My hands start shaking. I glare at them like they’ve personally betrayed me.
“I don’t resent being here,” I correct quickly. “Not because of you. I just—fuck’s sake. Everything is tangled right now.”
The shaking is worse, my legs are trembling. When did my body decide to gang up on me for these kinds of betrayals?
Too long ago.
My chromius seems to hug my brain, offering the limited comfort she can. I don’t care how strong she is, though, she won’t ever be able to hold my dysfunctional brain together.
Which is irritating because it’s further proof that I am the mess right now—not her.
Pathetic, Maeve.
You’re utterly pathetic.
“I understand,” Dr Abbott says. “We’ll go at your pace, with the understanding that it might be harder.”
I nod gratefully. I can’t meet his gaze or even find it in myself to thank him.
Not when I know his response.
You don’t need to thank me for doing my job, Maeve.
“How far back do you want to start today?”
“How far back do you want to go?” I counter.
The good doctor shakes his head, a wry smile on his face, as he speaks with so much patience. “You know that’s not how this works, Maeve. You guide this session.”
I scowl, then mutter, “The head.”
His grimace can’t be hidden, and I wonder what bothers him most.
The death. The gruesome nature of it. The trauma that came packaged in cardboard like a gift.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there that day,” he says quietly.
The air hums with a tension I can’t name. It’s thick, cloying, but kind of… empathetic.
Weird.
I shrug. “I don’t think it would’ve made a difference.”
The words come out flat, as if I’ve repeated the lie many times.
Because I have, really.
“I…” My throat tightens. “I touched Ari.”
“You touched her?” he repeats, a slight question to his words.
His gaze doesn’t change, not even the tiniest muscle twitch.
Where’s his surprise? The shock? Where’s the glee? The pride?
Where’s his reaction?
Where the fuck is his reaction?
“I was… unsettled,” I say softly. Distraught, really, but I don’t need to be dramatic. “I didn’t think about it. I just… collapsed. She held me as I laid in her lap. She stroked my hair. Stayed close.”
My chromius is purring, a gentle and familiar sound, as she tries to reassure me.
“Ari offered you the comfort that you needed in that moment,” he says carefully.
I nod my head. I don’t know what else to say. How else to continue.
But I swallow hard, and the truth forces its way out anyway.
“It… it didn’t hurt.”
His eyes soften, and I look away a beat too late. I don’t even know when I looked into them, but it was a mistake.
I can’t let him see how much it matters.
“It scares me,” I admit.
He doesn’t speak, willing to wait me out until I share the rest.
Patient prick.
I exhale shakily. “I didn’t feel relieved, or better, or even worse. I was just out of it… she apologised, you know?”
“When?” he asks.
“When I got back from the hospital.” My voice goes thin. I tap my foot once, the heel clicking against the floor, before I settle myself. “It was the first thing she said. I could tell she was upset.”
“How?”
I know he probably already has insight from Ari, but I appreciate that he isn’t using it. He isn’t pinning me down with his knowledge.
I don’t know.
I just like that he’s able to separate me from her. My pain from hers.
“I could just tell. She thought she violated me.” I grimace, the shame twisting inside me like a painful hook.
As someone who has been violated, I wish I could’ve handled that situation better. That I could’ve explained to Ari properly how different it was.
She never hurt me. She never took from me.
Ari offered love, comfort, and protection. She was anchoring me, supporting me… and I let her spend hours thinking she was no better than the men who ruined me.
“I feel awful,” I whisper.
I flinch when his pen scratches once—soft, careful, but important—then stops.
I never meant to say that out loud, and I can’t talk about it.
“I barely remembered it, but more than that… she tried to help me, and all I did was cause her problems,” I rush out, desperate to outrun the shame before it swallows me whole.
“I see,” he says quietly.
And he does, he really fucking does.
Bastard.
The scratch of his pen across the paper is the only thing I can hear, and I use it as a way to calm my breathing.
Inhale when he writes. Exhale when he pauses.
“Shifters as a whole are very free with their affection,” he says. “Do you truly think she sees touching you as a problem?”
“I didn’t mean that,” I say, rolling my eyes.
I’m quite grateful for his assumption because the snark comes back into place easily, and I can distance myself from the emotions.
“The problems I referred to was the stalker obsessed with me, who delivers rotting heads as courting presents.” I smirk at his discomfort. “Ari gets luxury chocolates and decadent ice cream. I get death. It seems fitting, when you think about it.”
He leans forward slightly in his seat, the edge of his sweater vest crinkling against the chair.
Orange, today.
Probably chosen as a way to enthuse warmth into our aesthetic.
Or because he likes it.
“What was the hardest part of that day?” George asks carefully.
“Everyone would think it was the head.”
He nods. “But I’m not asking what everyone else thinks. I want to know what you think.”
“That his death wasn’t for me,” I admit, looking down at my hands. “He was killed, but not for what he did to me, not for the pain I endured. Instead, it was a way of making him a pawn—like me—in someone else’s twisted game.
“I thought I’d never have to see him again. That I’d never need to hear from him or look into his eyes.
“And I did… but it wasn’t on my terms.”