Like I have a hint into his personality. How his strange, murderous brain works.
"You're right," I admit, and my voice is stronger than I expect it to be. "Most of them didn't really like me. And Brax…"
Once again, my avoidant personality rears its head and kicks me off the road leading down to hard memories. I give a one-shouldered shrug and end with a lame, "I just don't see how killing people is… normal."
Caine grunts, his tattoos sliding over his neck. "Fenris seems to understand your weak human heart better than I do."
My shoulders stiffen. I can't decide if I'm more offended by the "weak" or the "human" part.
Both are true.
But it doesn't feel good to hear.
"It's not weak to value life," I protest, digging my nails into my palms. "Even the lives of people who were cruel."
Caine's expression shifts as he sits straight up, dropping his leg to the ground. "No—thatisn't why you're weak…"
Somehow, his words only make it worse.
"Oh. Really?" I ask, even more offended by the bald truth he speaks, though I know it's ridiculous to feel this way.
Iamhuman.Andweak.
It isn't something to argue over, but it doesn't make his words sting any less.
He hesitates, his jaw working like he's chewing through what to say next. Then, without warning, his hand reaches across the space between us.
Chapter thirty-four
Grace: Awkward Space
My body reacts before my brain even notices. I scramble backward like an awkward human crab, making it a foot away before my right wrist buckles out of nowhere.
My elbow crashes into the ground.
I adjust my position, trying to make my panicked retreat look casual.
I fail.
Spectacularly.
At least if I'm judging by the look on his face.
My cheeks are hot enough to light a fire.
Caine's hand hangs suspended between us, frozen in mid-air. His face has transformed from brow-creased concern to wide-eyed bewilderment, like I just sprouted a second head.
He's back to concern, but now it's the kind of concern you give a kid after they faceplant a sidewalk.
"No touching, remember?" I manage, my voice hitting soprano when it's usually a comfortable alto.
For a long moment, he stares at his outstretched hand like it's not even his. Then he slowly brings it back to his side.
Tension thickens between us.
"Right," he mutters. "No touching."
I pull my knees tighter to my chest, wishing I could disappear into the stone floor.
