Chapter 15

“No. Don’t. Don’t do it. Don’t go.”

Michael’s voice, loud and close by, jars me awake. He sits up quickly, panting. His movement forces me to pancake myself along the wall and sends my arm—which used to be draped across him—flying for a second.

Is he still asleep?

He braces one hand on the wall above me. His head bows as if he’s praying. “Don’t go,” he pleads with so much anguish it makes my heart twist.

Another nightmare.

I squint against the ceiling light. As the hours wore on and the talking became sparse, we must have nodded off. Michael’s wearing his shoes, and we’re on top of the bedspread.

Eyes still closed, Michael groans and scrubs his hand down his face. His knee comes up and he rests his forehead on top of it. My hand shaking, I reach for his back. All his muscles are coiling, as if he’s ready to be on his feet, fighting at a moment’s notice.

“Michael?” I whisper.

How did Darnell tell me to deal with shell shock? I should have paid better attention. Think harder. Get him to do something normal. No, that won’t work now. Not after the past twenty-four hours. The tense set of his shoulders, the lines around his eyes, and the way he’s yanking on his hair—Michael needs to be held. Plain and simple. To be told he’s not responsible for carrying the entire weight of the world. That he’s not alone and never will be again if I can help it.

Little by little, I inch my hand up his back and slowly get into a sitting position. With the heel of my palm, I rub back and forth against his shoulder blades. Relishing the feel of the soft shirt stretched taut across his strong figure. His back rises and falls with huge lungfuls of air, but he keeps his head on his knee.

Okay, he’s starting to freak me out. He’s awake, right?

With one arm snaked around his side and the other over the top of his shoulder, I splay my hands across his chest, finding his steady heartbeat. Then I tug his back against my body and drop my head so my lips are near his ear. His hair smells glorious, like standing deep in the woods at night after a light rain.

“You’re okay. It was just a nightmare.”

“It felt real.”

Lifting his head, he turns to look at me, but I am already so close. For a heartbeat, my nose grazes the soft cocoa stubble lining his cheek, and a part of me—a big part of me if I’m being honest—wants to lean in, weave my fingers into his hair, and discover if his lips would yield to mine. Instead I rest my chin on his shoulder, bringing my forehead to about his jaw line. Acting on anything with us both half asleep is a bad idea even on a good day, but on one like this? Worst idea ever.

Get a grip.

Michael is my friend. My best friend. Our emotions have been wrung, causing my senses to go a little haywire. We’re tired, and besides the few days on our mission, we’ve been apart for a long time. A longing to be around each other is understandable. And that’s all this is.

I’m positive.

Well. Like thirty percent positive. Which means the other seventy is screaming for more of Michael. But the thirty percent should win. That’s not mathematically logical. But, hey, I’ve never pretended to be a math whiz. Far from it. I have no clue how I skipped a grade. Then again, it’s not like they were quizzing me with huge life decisions broken into percentages when I was seven.

My head is so muddled, having volleyed between grief and anger and desire over the past few hours. Emotions have turned me into a puppet, playing out their whims. Which is highly aggravating. I’d rather stuff them in a box and duct tape it shut and hide it in the far corner of my mind. Evidently that’s beyond me today. I don’t have the reserves left to rein myself in.

But I must.

Untangling myself, I scoot away from him and pull my legs under me. I miss Michael’s warmth immediately. “Maybe we should take you to Darnell?”

He pulls a face. “Why?”

“The ... nightmares.” I speak slowly, exaggerating the word in case Michael’s still in the half-awake, half-asleep state of being.

He swivels around to fully face me. Definitely wide awake. His chin juts out, and his brows dive. “You still think I have shell shock?”

“Don’t you?”

Sleep has mussed his dark hair with adorable results. Tufts stick out at odd angles, and some falls limp on his forehead. It could be my muddled head, but the hair mixed with his serious look suddenly gives Michael an irresistible quality. Don’t get me wrong, Michael’s always been attractive, but right now it’s undeniable. Of all the times to be without a camera or a smartphone.

“I never had shell shock. Not even that first night. Trust me.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. Seriously, the man’s intentionally trying to kill me. Here lies Gabby Creed. Cause of death? Devilishly handsome man.

My mouth goes dry. I fake a small cough. “How do you know you don’t have it? Have you always had nightmares?”

“Not like these.” Clearly, he isn’t going to tell me details. And tonight’s not the time to press. Not after Lark.

Still. “When did they start?”

“Recently.” Someone present the man with a prize. He’s a true master in the fine art of evasion. Give him a suit and a mustache and he can double as a secret agent.

“So recently would be.” I roll my hand, trying to get him to talk. But he doesn’t. “Oh … about when it would have logically happened when we were at war. But you’re certain about not having shell shock because …?”

Feet on the ground, he paces away from the bed. “The nightmare I’m having has nothing to do with the war. Nothing to do with shell shock.” He turns back toward me. “I promise.”

Nightmare not nightmares?

“But—”

“Listen. I shouldn’t be here.” Michael hooks both his hands behind his neck. “With you. Like this.” His arms fall to his sides, and then he taps the couch’s arm rest. “It makes sense when we’re shifting, but I have my own room here. My own bed.”

A cord wraps around my insides, pulling tighter and tighter as he speaks. On my own, I’ll fall apart. I’ll stay huddled under the covers for days. Reliving Lark’s rasping gasps for air, the fear reaching out from her eyes, and her final words. I’ll see her blood again. My fingers burn to claw at my neck—just to take a full breath—because it feels like my chest wants to cave in.

“Please.” I push off the bed. “I don’t want to be alone.” Skirting away from the concern that flashes across Michael’s features, I fiddle with the bottom of my shirt. “After … I can’t … I’ll see it all again.”

Is this what death does—turns the people left living into total wrecks? Forever?

It happened to my father. But foolishly, I used to pride myself on being strong. Fall to pieces like Dad? Never. Not me. People only have that sort of a hold on your heart if you allow them to. I dedicated so much effort into placing locks and thorns and traps around my heart, like some pirate bent on keeping a treasure hidden. Keeping away people who might make me care.

Apparently, I’m a terrible pirate.

Losing Lark feels like someone walked up to me and tore a large chunk right out of my middle, and Michael possesses that same power. A smart woman would push him away. Call out the junkyard dogs that used to patrol the landscape of my heart and gain as much space as they could. And a week ago, in a different situation, I would have.

But death changes a person. It forces them to imagine what life would be like if other people were gone. If Michael suddenly vanished …

“Please, stay,” I whisper.

He’s at my side in an instant. He gently takes my arm and points me back to the bed. My bed isn’t abnormally tall, but he keeps his hand on me, guiding me, as I climb under the covers. He turns away, and my hand moves ninja fast to clutch his wrist. After my mournful begging, he’s going to just leave without a word?

He lays his hand over mine and squeezes. “One second.”

I drop my hold, and he crosses over to the pad on the wall that controls everything in my room. The overhead light flips off, and the lamp next to my bed dims. When he comes back to the bed, he stays on top of the covers. From my position facing the wall, I can’t see him, but his arm rests along my back. After a few minutes, his breaths even out, and his arm relaxes.

But my mind races. Thinking of my dad jogged my recent memories. I’ve been so consumed with mourning Lark that I’ve forgotten something vital.

“Are you still awake?”

“Hmm?”

I twist back around and tug my arm out from the blankets to rest it on Michael’s chest. “I saw my mom.”

The bed creaks as he sits up. “Your mom?”

I sit up too. We’re never going to sleep tonight. “She was there. I know it was her.”

“Since she changed, no one’s seen her. There were rumors that she might not be alive.” His gaze collides with mine. “You’re sure it was her?”

“Positive.”

‘What did she say?”

“Nothing. She only stared.”

“Stared?”

“Honestly, Michael, stop repeating everything. I’m not stuttering.”

He shakes his head. “Did you want to talk to her?”

“Of course.”

“But she’s a Shade.”

I run my finger down a crack in the paint on the wall. “What if they’re not all bad?” I retrace the crack. “What if we’re wrong about them?”

“They exist because of human despair—how can that not be bad?” He takes my hand and holds it between both of his. “I understand the pull toward your mother … the desire to know but promise me you won’t seek her out.”

“I don’t know if I can.” I pull back.

“Please, Gabby, do this.” He tightens his hold on my hand. “Promise me.”

“But if I get the chance to talk to her, maybe she can help me understand. I need to talk to her, don’t you get that?”

“The woman who is a Shade isn’t your mother any longer. I know that sounds bad but—”

“What if I’m just like her? What if I’m doomed—” My voice cracks.

In order to see each other better in the dim light, Michael places a hand on either side of my face and leans close. “You are not your mother. Hear me, Gabriella Creed. You are strong and brave and kind and good. You will succeed and change the world. You are already doing that. Stay true to your course. Don’t let anything cause you to waiver. Even this.”

Tingling warmth surges from my heart and spreads down my arms. Michael’s benediction unlocks something deep inside me, allowing my lungs to finally fill all the way.

What I would give to stay in this moment for as long as possible, in the safe harbor of my room, away from all but Michael with his encouraging words and kind gestures. I have to find a way to let him know what he means to me. Lark will never get the hug she needed—I don’t want regrets like that in my relationship with Michael. Not just him but in any of my friendships.

Currently though, Michael has all my attention. He’s consistently been there for me in my darkest moments. His patience goes beyond human limits. And the hooded look in his eyes stirs something in my stomach that clamors for a response.

Neither of us are particularly good with words—so why not action?

I draw my fingers up Michael’s shirt and trace them up over the soft stubble lining his jaw. His lips part as his breath catches. Finally close enough to smell the woodsy scent of his hair and skin again—that fragrance will always be home now—I meet his eyes for a second before letting my lids slide closed. An instant later, my lips cover his in a hungry kiss.

Michael cups the back of my head, and his fingers slip into my hair as he deepens the kiss. In response, my heart pounds like an over caffeinated hummingbird. Breaking contact with my lips, he drops tender kisses onto my cheek, my jaw, my neck. I shudder. This is so different than Porter’s kiss. Michael’s caress can only be described as reverent.

Greedily, I dip my head, reclaiming his lips. Taking on a mind of their own, my hands find the soft fabric of his fitted t-shirt and run down his sides. When I locate the end of his shirt, I walk my fingers to his skin. As we kiss, I feel for the scar on his back and press the tips of my fingers into it. Mine. The mark binds us. It’s there because of me. Because Michael was willing to protect me with his life before he even knew me.

This is a man worth clinging to.

The touch of my chilled skin against his heated back snaps Michael out of our moment. As if contact with me burns him, his muscles lock up, and then he pushes away from me so hard that he starts to fall backwards—off of the bed. I reach to right him but instead am caught in the momentum and fall on top of him. When he hits the ground, air rushes from his lungs in a loud groan. Before I can even sit up, Michael rolls out from under me and is on his feet, halfway across the room.

Blood still whirls around my body like a bunch of kids on their first roller-coaster, making me too weak to stand. My knees are pure jelly. I rock back to sit on my heels. “What—”

“We can’t.” Michael’s pacing near the bathroom, which is physically as far away as he can get in my room. “You and me … we can’t.”

We can’t? A hollow ache throbs in my chest.

Michael tears at his hair. “This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have stayed. We shouldn’t have been like this. We’ve been too close for a while now. I was stupid to think …” He shakes his head. “So stupid. I’ve led you on … made you believe this was okay. I’m to blame.” He’s rambling.

Michael doesn’t ramble.

But his words matter very little. All I hear is I don’t want you.

“We can’t?” I lamely parrot him.

“You have a Pairing.” He tosses his hands to his side.

“He doesn’t love me.”

He stops pacing and pins me with an incredulous look. “Impossible.”

I swallow hard. Now Michael knows what a failure I am. I can’t hack it as a Shifter. Not even on the basic stuff.

Michael tilts his head, considering his words. “You have to make it work with him.”

“But I don’t—”

“We don’t have a choice.” His voice comes out strangled. “We’re Shifters. If we chose not to follow one rule, then what does that mean for the rest of them?”

I rise to my feet and clench my fists. “But I don’t care about the rules.”

“I do.” He thumps his chest. “I care.”

“But not about me?”

He points at me. “Don’t twist my words.”

I square my shoulders. “Isn’t that what you’re saying though?”

“Shifting is all I have. It’s what I am.” He closes his eyes. “I can’t.”

Each word feels like he’s plunging a knife into my most vital organ.

Sword master indeed.

Out of everything in Keleusma and in regard to shifting, I thought I was certain about Michael. About his feelings. I may not understand much about missions and leadings, but I knew how to read my friend. I’ve been so misguided. And if I’m wrong about him, then I’m probably wrong across the board.

“It’ll be fine.” He takes cautious steps toward me. “We just have to pretend like that never happened.”

“You could forget that?”

“We have to.”

“I can’t.”

“Gabby, we have to.”

“Didn’t you like … I thought—”

“We’re friends. Let’s just be friends.” He reaches toward me, but I duck away from his grasp.

“If you can’t … I don’t want to be around you. I won’t be able to.”

Shift me. Right now, Nicholas. Listen up—rescue me from this. Please?

Michael catches one of my wrists before I can move, and then he secures the other. It’s not a hard or possessive hold, more like he just doesn’t want me to disappear on him. He knows my tendency to flee all too well.

“Don’t say that. We can get past this.” His soft eyes plead with me. “You’re my best friend. We’ll figure this out. We need each other.”

Fisting my hands, I bring them up and then drive them down and apart in a quick motion. It’s a move they teach on the first day of self-defense class—how to get out of an unwanted hold. I do it with more force than I meant to, and it sends Michael staggering back, right into the door. Seizing the opportunity, I slam my hand on the keypad, making it glide open, and then I shove him out into the hall.

I pierce him with a glare. “Let’s get one thing straight. I have never needed you.”

Then I hit the door pad, making it whoosh shut before he can stick his hand in to stop it.

But not before seeing his face crumble.