Page 55 of Eat, Slay, Love

Instinct takes over before reason can catch up. My hands fly forward, energy snapping outward in a sharp concussive wave that hits him square in the chest and knocks him back a step.

“Nightmare,” he huffs, more startled than hurt. “What the fuck?”

I stare at him.

Jonah stands there in a faded gray sweatshirt and dark jeans, hair rumpled, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. His face is pale beneath his skin, faint bruising still visible along his jaw and throat. A bandage peeks out at his collarbone. He looks wrecked. He looks alive.

“You’re alive,” I sob.

His expression crumples instantly, relief and disbelief crashing across his features. His eyes shine, impossibly blue, already wet. “And that’s a bad thing?” he asks softly.

“You could’ve texted me,” I choke out, my voice cracking into something unrecognizable. “You could’ve—called—or—something⁠—”

“Mayari,” he says, taking a cautious step toward me. “Baby. Angel. Nightmare.” His mouth curves weakly. “I’ve only known you for two weeks, and you were unconscious for more than half of it. I don’t even have your phone num⁠—”

He loses the rest of the sentence when I launch myself at him. He catches me automatically, arms wrapping around my back with crushing strength. The impact knocks the breath out of both of us, but neither of us lets go. I bury my face in his neck, breathing him in—soap and skin and something darker and ancient underneath, something uniquely him.

My magic surges wildly, racing along every point of contact, cataloging him in frantic detail. My hands move without permission, gripping his shoulders, his arms, his face, mapping the angles and planes, confirming he’s solid and real and here.

He exhales against my hair, a broken sound, and presses his face into the crown of my head. His fingers slide into my hair, tightening, holding me in place as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

“I thought you were dead,” I whisper.

“I thought you were dead,” he answers, his voice rough. “Again. Saving me.”

I pull back just enough to see him and immediately kiss him—his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, every inch of skin I can reach. He laughs breathlessly, tears slipping down his temples, before his hands frame my face and he kisses me properly, deeply, memorizing me all over again.

It feels like coming home to a place I didn’t know I was building. I’ve lived sixty-seven years without belonging to anyone, without letting anyone belong to me. Two weeks ago, he was a demon I tried to kill in an alley. Now my magic recognizes him before I do. Now the absence of him feels like suffocation, as though my soul has rearranged itself around his presence and forgotten how to breathe without it. Like my magic has spent the last two weeks weaving him into the fabric of me, thread by thread, until I can no longer sense where I end and he begins.

He pulls away slowly, pressing his forehead to mine, his thumbs brushing the damp tracks beneath my eyes. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “For saving my ass. For saving my family.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I say, shaking my head. “We both almost died.”

“But you saved us in the process,” he says simply.

I swallow hard. “I kept our family safe,” I correct.

His breath catches. The word settles between us, fragile and enormous. Family. His smile spreads slowly, reverently.

“What happened?” I ask, still holding onto his sweatshirt. “After I—after everything?”

“I woke up in the ER,” he says. “Horribly confused and profoundly stitched together. I was so incredibly lucky to be there.” He pauses, weighing his next words. “Tasha Greene was there.”

I blink. “What?”

“She operated on me. She knew what I was.” His eyes find mine. “She knew who I was, and who I was to you.”

My stomach drops. “She⁠—”

“She saved my life anyway.”

Emotion surges up so violently it buckles my knees.

“I talked to her afterward,” he adds. “For a long time. About you, mostly.”

“Oh God.”

“It was uncomfortable.” His mouth twitches, but the smile doesn’t last. “She asked me why I never fought back.”