Chapter 17
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I liver you more.
Kyran
“Mistress.” I help Morana drag Lukas’s pile of bio hazard laundry—which I am positive my poor sweet little sister Clara gathered up in his filthy room—out to wash. “It was so cold last night.”
Morana makes some manner of confirming sound, yet doesn’t look at me, or really acknowledge that I’m speaking.
I continue, “I lay, freezing, in my bed that smelled of my most beloved person, and I thought to myself, wow, if I’m this cold with the memory of my wife’s scent on my sheets, how frigid must she be without mine?”
Still nothing. She’s been somewhat closed-off today, hasn’t she?
“And, therefore,” I begin my conclusion, “I’d like to apologize for not showing up on your doorstep last night and offering to sleep with you, to keep you warm, and to leave your bed with memories of me.”
She halts.
My heart flutters.
She casts a scarlet-faced glare over her shoulder. “My bed has plenty of memories of you, e-boy. Plenty.”
I glance at her neck, where my bite mark has now since faded away.
She lets Lukas’s hamper sag so she can clamp her hand to her throat, hiding nothing from me, because—as stated—it’s bite-mark-less, and very sad and lonely for it, I’m sure. Ignoring the sorrows reflected in my own eyes, she says, “Did you…sleep well?”
“I was so cold.”
“Right, but…”
“And the sun? It came right through my window in the morning, without purpose, as it was not coaxing me awake to behold the way it wished to play across your skin.”
She sighs. “Did you have any nightmares?”
“One.”
She deflates. “Oh.”
“I turned on my fairy lights, buried my face in the pillow you used, and went back to sleep.”
Softness rivals her scowl until it’s overcome with relief. Care. Maybe even love.
I try my luck pushing it. “Did you know that your hair smells like lavender?”
“Yeah? It’s the shampoo I pick. Of course I know the scent of my shampoo.”
“Did you know that the sleep-aid sprays you got me are lavender?”
Her gaze travels, then she says, “Oh, yeah. I guess they were.”
“Dream goddess indeed.”
She…winces.
Then she turns her back on me and continues up the hall.
Mm. Yeah. Don’t like that.
I close the distance between us, adjusting the sack of Lukas’s excess laundry. She keeps plodding on, eyes steady ahead. I ask, “Have you relapsed?”
“What?”
“You’ve reconsidered how close we’ve been getting, and you’re getting scared, so you’re closing off again.”
She stops short and turns wide eyes on me. “Am I?”
I…do not like that tone.
“Wow,” she breathes, dropping Lukas’s hamper. “Thank you so much for letting me know. I’ll remedy this at once. Would you like to kiss me against this wall?” She tosses her thumb over her shoulder. “Or should I pin you to that one?” She points past me.
I glance behind me. And, well, if we’re being perfectly honest with each other and not sarcastic at all…
I’d like to be pinned.
A hand hits my chest, knocking the breath from my lungs. I lose my grasp on Lukas’s laundry, then I lose my ability to think as my hips hit the wainscotting.
Morana’s nails nip into my jaw as she grips my chin, forcing my attention down to her as though she assumes it could possibly be anywhere else. “Better?” she whispers.
“Yes, thank you.”
“To clarify, I’m not relapsing, and not everything is about you.”
I swallow. “I apologize for my narcissistic behavior. It’s unbecoming of your life’s mate.”
“You’re forgiven.” She swipes her thumb along my jaw. “It’s…not like I make it easy to feel comfortable in relationships with me.”
“Relationships?” I echo.
Her gaze falls.
I lift her chin, so we’re both standing here in the hall, gripping each other’s faces like functional adults. “We’re in a relationship?”
Her brows knit. “Are we…not?”
“We are. I knew that. I didn’t know that you knew that.”
Her eyes run their full-circle course. “I’m not that stupid.”
“You’re not stupid at all, and I wish you’d stop saying that you are.”
Divot. “I wish you had better self-control.”
I touch my thumb to the dip beneath her lip. “Do I not?” Behold, me, not even begging her for kisses. What is self-control, if not this?
“Staying the night with you feels like playing Russian roulette. I don’t know which of us is going to break first. Which sucks.
” Her forehead drops against my chest, and then her body follows, melting into me.
“Because right now? I want this. In bed. With hot chocolate. For maybe several hours…but probably several days.”
My breath hitches, but I manage to wrap her up in my arms without losing my nerve—or my impeccable self-control. Soft, so as to not frighten her, I say, “We could always get married.”
“If divorce weren’t a thing, that’s almost a solution, isn’t it?”
“Divorce is long. Exhausting. I don’t think I have the stamina for it. So that ‘option’ is practically non-existent, if you ask me.”
She shifts, arms hanging at her sides. “I’m spiteful, bitter, and volatile. Not exactly good wife material.”
“Yeah, well. I’m messed up and like being bullied. So you’re perfect wife material for me.”
Her face lifts, chin propped on my chest, divot on full display. “You like me…because I’m mean to you?”
“I hide it so well, don’t I?”
Sadness drowns her eyes before her face buries itself against my chest again. This time her arms circle me and squeeze. “I’m sorry.”
I shudder. “What new level of bullying is this, mistress? You’ve learned my kink, so now you’re withholding my meanness in an elaborate feat of 3D harassment? I’m not sure my body can withstand such depth of antagonism. If you’d like to be truly cruel, you should kiss me, though.”
“I don’t want to be cruel.”
Pity.
“I do want to kiss you, though.”
Oh? I rescind my previous remark.
Forgetting what she’s just said, she crushes me, then leaves me chilled. Returning to her discarded laundry basket, she hefts it up and peers at me.
Tilted against the wall, arms empty, I peer back at her.
“Would you still like me if I’m nice to you?” she asks.
“That depends.” I tuck my cold mistress-less hands in my pockets, to keep them warm. “Does being nice to me include explaining what’s wrong with you today?”
Her eyes narrow. “What’s wrong with me today?”
“I said what I said. Even if it has nothing to do with me, something’s up. I know that much at least.”
She huffs, and turns, and stomps away.
I don’t move. “Why do you care about being cruel all of a sudden?”
“Why do you think it’s all of a sudden?” She whirls. “Am I really a terrible person, and you just like that the abuse is familiar or fun? Am I really just holding your attention because of the dopamine rush you get when dealing with my attitude?”
Ouch. “Who knows why I like your attitude? Also, I don’t think you’re a terrible person, but I do think when you’re mean to me, it’s on purpose.”
“And if it’s not? If I’m just mean?”
“Then I guess falling in love with someone who’s into it is a brilliant idea.
” Pushing off the wall, I stalk toward her.
“What’s gotten into your head, Morana? Tell me.
Because you’re not going to stand here, thinking that you’re acidic because you can’t help it, after you spent hours of labor and hours more of thought in an effort to help me sleep better.
You’re not going to look me in the eye and tell me that you’re terrible when you are the most sincere person I know. ”
“I’m no—”
“You let me pick a stuffed animal. To help me sleep.”
“So?” she snaps. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I have dozens of them.”
“Right, you do. But I picked the one on your bed. The one you were currently obviously favoring. I picked it, because I wanted something that smelled like you, and you let me. I didn’t think you would.
I thought you’d call me an idiot and divert my attention to the ones that weren’t in use, but you didn’t.
” Her mouth opens, but I cut her off. “You are always thinking about other people, Morana. You are kind, kinder even because you are so abrasive. Your kindness isn’t cheap or face value.
When you do something nice for someone, you mean it.
When you say something sweet, you aren’t just gifting those words, you’re gifting the effort it took to be vulnerable and say them when it goes against every wall you normally have up to protect yourself. ”
“That’s not—”
“Minutes ago,” I state, “I expressed insecurity, and you hugged me. You’re obviously going through something, but you put those feelings on pause for me. So.” I cup her face. “What are you even talking about?”
A tear falls down her cheek. “When I asked why you liked me, you did not say kind.”
“Just because that’s not a reason I like you doesn’t mean that’s not something you are.
I’m the baby of this family, Morana. My parents were trash, but I still got some perks, like a lower bar for success and a mother’s plastic coddling—in between unexpected punishments.
Blatant saccharine freaks me out, so kindness isn’t in my top list of desirable traits.
I don’t care about it. I wasn’t raised to trust it.
What I love about you is that your sharpest parts are the loud ones, the ones on display, the ones you present to the world.
You’re not hiding your dark things. You’re hiding the sweetness.
I don’t have to worry about what I might find under the surface.
Your front is fun, and I think it’s hopelessly seductive, but your core?
It’s soft. It surprises me in good ways, not horrifying ones.
” Lifting her face, I hold her gaze as I catch her fallen tear on my tongue and taste the trail until I can kiss the corner of her eye. “Talk to me.”
She tenses, but she doesn’t make a single move to pull away.
“I…have decided that I’m a self-sabotager.
I burn bridges or try to get other people to burn them for me.
There’s a bridge I burned that I’m second guessing, and the other person left a thread intact…
so…I have choices to make that I don’t want to.
I like you. A lot. It sickens me how much.
It…scares me.” Her eyes close. “If I’m the problem, if I’m the reason people leave, then I need to address that before I lose you…
too. But to address that, I need to face emotions and character traits that kinda suck.
That’s where I am today. Lost in the full recognition of the sucking.
” Genuinely pained, she opens her eyes to me, pleading for me to understand.
But I can’t.
I can’t imagine Morana doing anything that would compel me to leave her.
I can’t picture it.
I cannot fathom how a man could be blessed with everything she can give and walk away from it. But, I guess, the only other guy she’s given those pieces of herself to wasn’t a man at all, but rather a boy.
I see how this woman treats my family. I see how she treats hers. She’s thoughtful to a fault. She’s considerate. She puts our needs before her own. She’s supportive, intentional, and genuine.
What she’s shown me lately hasn’t constituted self-sabotage so much as it’s been a test of my own words and a fulfillment of my own invitation.
I apparently told her that if she marched in on me, I’d claim her as my girlfriend.
Testing that isn’t sabotage. It’s just smart.
And, seeing as she is so ashamed of who she is and worried that she’s not good enough, seeing if I’ll actually do what I say in front of strangers makes sense.
She just wanted to know if I was as ashamed of her as she is of herself.
She needs me to show her that she’s good enough.
It’s not burning a bridge if she had permission. It’s not making up problems; it’s cautious hope that I won’t let her down.
Ultimately, she’s careful.
Ultimately…she wants the reason that people leave her to be one she can control.
Because even if changing herself is hard, she can do hard things.
What she can’t do is stop other people from walking away when it’s not her fault at all.
“You’re not saying anything,” she whispers.
“Please tell me the thread left intact has nothing to do with the guy who took advantage of you.”
Her face scrunches, but far too much defeat lies beneath the anger in her expression. She mutters, “I’m not…that stupid. I already told you. That guy doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t really make any sense for me to mend old flings if I’m looking ahead at a relationship with you, now does it?”
It doesn’t really make sense for her to mend old relationships at all when someone who wasn’t her family has clearly made her feel small, stupid, and difficult to be around.
But that isn’t exactly my judgment to make, I guess.
“Most gods and goddesses have multiple lovers. It’s mythologically accurate. ”
“Ew.” She steps out of my touch. “I don’t know how I feel about you calling me a goddess when that’s so blatantly what your brother calls my sister. I prefer having my own thing.”
“Like…dominatrix?”
She sighs.
“Or…dearest?”
“I like that one,” she murmurs, pushing her hair back over her ear. “But you can also get more creative with it. Maybe call me a vital organ, or something cheesy cute like that.”
Deadpan, I say, “My dearest liver.”
She chokes on a laugh, then swears, and says, “No.”
“Oh, sorry. Were you opting for my dearest heart?” I slink up the hall and grab the other pile of clothing before returning to her, waxing poetic the whole way. “The blood in my veins or the air in my lungs?”
Half smiling, she shakes her head. “The electricity in my brain; the spark of my soul.”
“The complex filtration system of my kidneys.”
She snorts. “You’re something else.”
“You’re everything that gives me life.”
Her free hand grazes past the backs of my fingers, and I latch on like I might die if I don’t. She squeezes and murmurs, “I’m trying my best. Promise.”
I wish I knew how to tell her that she doesn’t have to try. She just needs to accept that she loves me, because just that—just loving me—is good enough.