Page 57 of Blood Queen
His response is sharp and biting: “Your promises mean nothing.” Yet, his eyes tell a different story, filled with a deep worry and an emotion that tightens its grip on my heart like a vice.
“I mean it.” I cradle his face in my hands. His fingers tighten against my neck, his thumb sweeping gently across my jaw.
“Fuck, Kid. How long am I supposed to…” his voice trails off.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—a reminder, a summons—and I close my eyes for a moment, trying to block out the wave of guilt that crashes over me.
“Go,” he whispers, the word hanging heavily in the air. I take a moment to etch his face into my memory—the curve of his dimple, the depth of his eyes, the very essence of him.
With a heavy heart, I nod.
I open the car door, stepping into the night air that feels as sharp and unforgiving as shattered glass against my skin.
I slide into the driver’s seat of my rental car and reluctantly answer the buzzing phone.
“Where the fuck are you?” Uncle Leo’s voice hisses through the line, dripping with venom and impatience.
32
Past
The first month at college is a careful game of hide-and-seek.
While Truman goes to class, I slip through the cracks of the world only he belongs to. I wander the campus, sticking to the edges, watching from the safety of shadows. No ID. Not a student. Just a ghost in stolen places.
The town is bigger than Moffitt—buildings stacked high, streets humming with people, shops overflowing with things I’ve never had. I step into a bookstore just to breathe in the pages. I watch students in coffee shops, scribbling in notebooks, laughing with friends. I wonder what it would feel like to sit among a group of people and fell like you belong.
But I don’t.
So I wait for Truman.
He finds me every afternoon, his gaze sweeping over me like he’s making sure I’m still in one piece. Sometimes, he brings mesnacks from the dining hall, sneaking them into his backpack like a criminal. Other times, he takes my hand and tugs me toward the off-campus diner where we split fries and I steal his milkshake. He often picks me wildflowers for no reason and always, always has his hands on me somehow.
But nighttime—that’s when I feelreal.
Every night, he pulls me into his bed.
I don’t know if he thinks I need it, or ifhedoes. Maybe both.
At first, I thought it would be awkward—two bodies crammed together in a twin bed. But it isn’t. It’s warmth. Safety. A place to land.
The first night, I stiffened when he wrapped an arm around me.
The second night, I melted into it.
Now, it’s instinct.
I crawl under the covers, and Truman follows, tangling us together like heneedsto hold me as much as I need to be held. His chest is solid against my back, his arm heavy over my waist, and I revel in every second of it.
I’ve never had this before.
His breath is warm against my neck when he murmurs, “You okay?”
I close my eyes.I don’t know.
But I say, “Yeah.”
Because when we’re like this, it almost feels true.
