Page 11 of Blood Queen
“I know you said you’d text, but… I’m here.”
A sleepy little grin tugs at the corners of his mouth as his arms envelop me. “You’re such a little shit,” he rasps into my ear.
I kiss the soft spot under his ear lobe, trailing kisses along his jaw to his full lips.
He hums against my lips, his body warm and solid beneath my touch. His hands slide down my back, pulling me in closer, anchoring me. His grip tightens like he knows—like he always knows—when I need to feel held together.
I kiss him deeper, tasting sleep and familiarity, his breath mixing with mine. His fingers skim up my spine, threading through my hair, tilting my head the way he likes. It’s slow. Unrushed. Like he has all the time in the world for me, even though I never stay long.
He breaks the kiss first, his forehead resting against mine, his thumb brushing my cheek.
“Rough night?” His voice is a quiet rasp, but the weight of the question lands like a blow.
I swallow, tightening my grip on him. “Something like that.”
His sigh is knowing, heavy. His fingers stroke along my bare hip, but he doesn’t press. He never does. He just lets me take what I need, lets me exist in this stolen moment before reality rips me away again.
“Stay,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over my temple.
I squeeze my eyes shut. If I let myself, I could pretend. Pretend that I don’t have blood under my nails. Pretend that I’m not a woman who has carved a path of destruction back to the people who made me this way. Pretend that this—this warmth, this safety—is something I could ever really have.
I press another lingering kiss to his lips, breathing him in. “You know I can’t.”
His hands tighten against me, his jaw flexing as he fights whatever words want to spill free. I know what they are. They’re the same ones he always gives me. The same ones I’ll never listen to.
Instead, he exhales slowly, pulling me closer, like he can keep me here through sheer force of will.
“Then shut up and let me love you while I’ve got you.”
I relent, just for a moment, letting myself melt into his arms. Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow, there will be no part of me left to hold. But tonight—even if it’s the last—I can give him this.
Later, when he drifts asleep, I slip from the bed without a sound. Every movement is quiet agony; every shift of my weight threatens to wake him. I pause in the doorway, memorizing the rise and fall of his chest.
8
Past
“Drill!”
The wordboomsfrom Papa, and instantly, I’m running around like a chicken after its head has been chopped off.
I run to the barn’s back corner, grab the backpack and rifle hidden in the corner, and bolt through the small doggy door he built behind the hayloft. I cut through the woods, tiny, seemingly inconsequential branches scratching at my face as I go. The heat causes little droplets of sweat to drop from my chin down between my breasts as I sprint.What the hell is in this backpack anyway?
I’m at our rendezvous point in under three minutes, which is a new record for me. I huff and puff to catch my breath.
Papa shows up a couple minutes later to find me leaning up against the base of a tree relaxing.
“Backpack?” he asks while eyeing the rifle. I yank it into view from the other side of the tree by its ratty strap.
He narrows his eyes. “You didn’t aim at me.”
I shrug. “I know your footsteps; I didn’t need to aim at you.”
“You always need to aim. Any man of similar size would sound the same walking through these woods.” He shakes his head, mildly disappointed.
“You are paranoid, old man,” I quip.
Years ago, I thought our drills were fun little games. A break from the monotonous schooling routine. Now, they’re just irritating. I was right in the middle of harvesting broccoli for dinner when he called drill.
