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If Nora took her own life, I’d be right there behind her.
36
NORA
My stomach hurts. My head hurts. But most of all? I hurt.
I thought that was it. That once I made the decision to survive, to continue living, that everything would be easier. Sure, I knew the depression wouldn’t just disappear. That my anxiety would still be there. That the PTSD I seem to have wouldn’t just leave me.
But I didn’t expect to struggle so badly with my decision. I didn’t expect to be tested so soon.
I only got home yesterday. Hell, it’s not even been 24 hours since I’ve been back in civilisation–okay, well that might be a tad bit dramatic, but still—and already, fate’s trying to tempt me back to the dark side.
Why can’t I just live? Why does it need to be such a battle?
“Nora,” Orson calls, gently knocking on my door before coming inside. He’s got my hot water bottle in one hand, and a cup of tea in the other. “I can smell the pain coming off of you, little cub. I’ve got your hot water bottle, so hopefully that will help.”
I try to muster up a smile, but it’s hard. Everything is so fucking hard. He passes me the hot water bottle, and I quickly wrap it around myself, hoping that the heat diminishes some of the pain. It has in the past, but the cramps seem to be worse today.
I don’t know if they actually are or if I’ve just spent so much time talking about them that they’re all I can think about.
“You can have some meds in another hour,” he adds once I’m settled. “I’m sorry you’re in pain.” He presses a soft kiss to my forehead and stands up. “Fin’s ordering sandwiches from the cafe for lunch. Would you like chicken or beef?”
“Um, chicken.”
He smiles. “No problem. Do you want some company?” I don’t reply, not sure how to say no without seeming rude. It’s obvious he’s worried about me, and after not seeing each other all weekend, I’m sure he has missed me.
But sitting with him when I’m in this kind of mood isn’t going to be good for either of us. I want to lie here and wallow about what I need to decide, about what decision I should make regarding my fucking uterus.
Do I want to trial the meds and hope they don’t send me spinning out? Do I want to tempt fate and just try my luck? Do I want the guys to go learn how to put condoms on, and hope like hell they don’t forget in the heat of the moment? Hell, do I want to have a baby now?
Or do I want to plead with my wolf to let us have an abortion?
And ’I’ll feel guilty knowing he will be worried, but I can’t talk to him about it. Not until I understand my own mind better.
“David texted me this morning,” Orson says, his eyes raking over my face as he assesses my mood. He’s not upset that I’m a rude cow who doesn’t want to spend some time with him alone, just a little concerned about me. “Just checking in on you. He’s a little terrified of Voss, but not brave enough to text Atticus. So it seems like I’ve become his go to contact. He didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
“Oh. Thanks.” He smiles, and I take the hint. “I’ll give him a call.”
“Only if you’re feeling up to it,” Orson says, but I don’t want to sit here trapped in my own mind.
And I owe David an apology for missing his ceremony—even if it wasn’t my fault, he’s only having one in the first place because Kennedy is forcing him. I feel responsible for it.
“I am.”
I grab my phone and dial my brother’s number as Orson lets himself out, reassuring me that someone will bring food up once it’s arrived.
“Hey,” David answers, sounding a little breathless.
“Hi!” I reply, and he gasps, and I hear him telling someone in the background he’ll be back soon. He’s jogging away, and it’s not until he’s away from the background noise that he speaks.
“Nora? Shit, how are you doing?”
“I’m fine,” I say, laughing as I get comfortable in my bed. “How are you?”
“Better now that I’ve heard from you. Shit, I’m so glad you’re okay. Atticus said you ended up going home rather than coming here that day? Did you run the entire way?”
“Um, I could answer but I have no idea what I’m meant to say.” Especially considering I know he was working with my mates who were still at the pride to figure out where I was. I wish Orson had briefed me on this first.
