19. Black Swan Pas de Deux
L una’s trust nearly makes me crumple with relief.
I exhale slowly through my nose, calming myself so I don’t spook her.
I’m so afraid she’ll fly away from me again that it takes all my restraint not to yank her into my arms. I gingerly pull her to my bare chest, while my other hand rests at the small of her back.
Her brows are still drawn together, wary.
But she lets me lead her into a slow, modified waltz with steps small enough to fit the one-room cabin.
I hum a folk tune, one that reminds me of a winding river, and turn her gently.
She lifts the jug and spins once on her good foot, proving the moonshine does help counterbalance her body weight so she can avoid her bad ankle.
But when I draw her close again, I slide the jug from her hand and set it on the mantel.
“You don’t need that anymore. Use me instead.”
Her eyes flash right before I guide her into a turn, my hand steadying her waist. She spins so fast her tutu flares, light as air, like she’s flying. When she returns to my arms, her face has softened, the tension in her body nearly gone.
“Dancing helps,” she whispers, resting her head on my chest.
Pride fills my lungs, loosening the vise around them, and I press my lips to the crown of her head.
“Then we’ll dance as long as you need, baby.”
In all the time I’ve watched her, I’ve seen Luna carefree, happy, angry, mischievous, sassy… just about every which way I can.
But this is new. This soft, fragile side.
If what I just saw is another facet of her, one I have a feeling few people have had the privilege to see, then I want to know that side just as much, maybe more.
I want to be the peace to Luna’s fury, and the fact that she curls into me now, seeking me for comfort, is all the confirmation I need to know Fate has named her mine.
I can practically feel the energy buzzing through her, and I wince every time she shudders like she’s trying to visibly rein it in. I let instinct tell me how to ground her—humming, singing, talking about nonsense—filling the silence like I can tell she’s fighting not to do.
“Let’s see,” I say. “Another rule of the Fury hollers…”
Her eyes flick to mine, and I bite back my smile. She’d gone somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind, but I knew that’d return her to me.
“We already went over the leaves, name in the woods, paint marks,” I continue. “Oh, here’s one. If it’s silent, you’re not the only predator.”
She repeats it softly. “Silent… not the only predator…”
“That’s right,” I nod. “So if I ever tell you to run, you run, alright? No matter what. I’ll find you.”
She frowns. “Promise? I’m not very good at the woods yet.”
I can’t hide my grin this time. “Yeah, I promise.”
“Okay. Then I promise too.”
If I have anything to say about it, she’ll never have to run from danger again. But nothing out here is ever guaranteed. Her trusting me is half the battle. The other half is arming her.
She’s retreated back into her mind, staring unseeing at the embers in the cast-iron stove, so I clear my throat.
“By the way,” I start. “I don’t think you’ll kill me anymore.”
“What?” She blinks, dragging her eyes away from the fire.
“I don’t think you’ll kill me anymore. Which means , I think you’ve earned crossbow privileges tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
Damn, I was hoping that’d work. But she doesn’t play back, and she searches my face for so long I nearly miss our next step. Finally, she breaks her silence.
“I’m sorry I’ve been off.”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “No one can be on all the time. You’ve been through enough the past week alone.”
She winces. “Yeah. Well, this happens sometimes. It’s just never been this bad. Today was too much.” Her voice wavers, then drops to a whisper. “It was terrifying.”
“Fuck, if all this is because of what happened at the lake?—”
She shakes her head, wincing. “I’m not talking about that. I don’t want to talk about it yet. It’s too much right now. I need to feel everything quietly before I feel it aloud.”
I nod, chest tight. “I can’t say I totally understand. But we’ll need to talk about it eventually.” Guilt carves deeper in my chest, and the words tumble out before I can stop them. “I got carried away. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since I woke up beside you this morning?—”
Her eyes widen, and I stutter to a stop as she stills.
“I know what to do.” Her gaze snaps to mine. “I need to go to sleep.”
I frown. Something in the way she said need doesn’t sit right with me, but I let it go.
“Okay, we’ll go to sleep.”
I walk her to the outhouse and back, never letting her out of my sight. She’s calmer now, but she still fidgets like her skin doesn’t fit. I can’t help being on high alert, analyzing her every move.
I’ve never seen her like this. On edge. Euphoric one second, vicious the next, breakable last. Like she could implode or explode at any moment, the slightest wrong touch enough to set her off.
When we’re back inside, I pull my dry shirt from its rafter and hold it up.
“Put my shirt on, baby.”
She doesn’t argue, just strips down to her panties and walks into the opening I’ve stretched for her, letting me help without a word. Not that she needs me to help her get dressed, obviously. But for me, doing something eases the tension in my muscles a fraction.
The hem flutters to just above her knees. There’s no flirting. No sly jokes.
Just… silence.
Jesus, I hate this.
When she sits on the cot, I undress to my boxer briefs with just as little fanfare. My pulse is a heavy lump of concern in my throat as I lean against the door and slowly slump down to my “bed.”
“Orion?”
“Yeah?” I freeze mid-sit.
She scooches back on the cot, making herself smaller, and fidgets with the edge of the blanket. She looks so innocent when her shy question whispers out.
“Sleep with me?”
My heart stops painfully.
I swallow, but my voice is still rough. “You sure?”
She nods without hesitation, but I’m already moving, sliding in under the blanket beside her.
The second I’m close, something primal takes over, but not lust. Need. The need to touch her, hold her, save her from whatever monster claws her up inside.
As I lie down, I loop one arm around her waist and roll her into me.
Wanting to be pressed along every part of her that I can reach, I hook my hand behind her knee and pull her leg over mine, brushing my hand over her tattoo and keeping it there.
She instantly rests her cheek on my chest, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for her to find comfort a breath away from my Fury birthmark. As it should be.
Her soft hand drifts over my pec. “What happened here?”
I don’t have to look to know she’s tracing the jagged scar that I had inked into her thigh tattoo.
Where to begin? Where to end? That’s the thing about this feud. There’s neither.
I don’t want to burden her with anything else tonight, but it is a part of my past—a part of me— she’ll find out soon enough. She’s given me so much already tonight, she deserves whatever I can give her back.
“It happened when I was seventeen,” I murmur. “I was stabbed.”
Her fingers still, but I go on. “It was the worst night of my life. I got these then too.” I raise one hand, turning it in the firelight.
My fingers and the tops of my hands were left relatively unscathed, but my palms? With the fire flickering out of focus behind them, the ridges and glossy divots look alive with movement over the dead nerves. Ironic, really.
“The burns were bad. I’m lucky I have feeling in my hands at all.”
My eyes drift to the fire, my mind to the memories that always flicker behind the flames. Luna traces a horizontal ridge, bringing me back to her and saving me from descending into hell for the millionth time. Then she laces her fingers in mine and holds them to my chest.
“Is he dead?”
She doesn’t pity me. She doesn’t whisper “I’m sorry” or cry for me. And I don’t want her to.
Luna was born into this life and understands its brutality without needing an explanation.
She intuitively knows those exchanges feel more like peeling off a scab than the half-assed balm they’re meant to be.
As much as I want to protect her from this world, she belongs in it too.
She belongs to me , and one day I’ll convince her of that.
“He’s dead,” I answer simply, even though there’s way more to that story. Like the fact that two got away.
“Good.”
She settles against me, and her next question comes out with weighted tenderness.
“Orion?” I feel her cheek shift as she worries her lip, thinking. “Do your scars have anything to do with your nightmares?”
My breath stills.
“My nightmares?”
She nods. “Like the one last night.”
The nightmare that changed everything between us. I made more progress with her while unconscious than I ever had awake. Something about it cracked open the door to her soul just enough to let me in.
And tonight did the same for me.
I knew I cared about her, but now that I’ve seen an unveiled glimpse of Luna when she’s afraid someone’s watching, I want all of her.
I want to seep into her lungs, become every breath, learn every thought, and understand her down to her marrow.
I want to know her better than the backwoods I grew up in.
By feel, by instinct, in daylight, but especially in her storms.
I kiss her forehead, grateful she let me this close. Terrified it won’t last. I’ve begged her for honesty. I owe her mine.
“Yeah, baby,” I swallow, but my throat is still raw as I whisper into her hair. “My scars have everything to do with my nightmares.”