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That got him the final punch in the face that could or could not send him on the first ambulance to the hospital.
My rage surged the highest after I saw that Mia intentionally hid the hickey he left. As if she was trying to protect the mark or something equally blasphemous.
I’ve never experienced that type of rage. Not when Bran was made a target. Not when Killian decided my sister was his target.
Not even when I figured out I’d never relate to my parents the way my siblings do.
The moment I saw another man’s mark on Mia’s skin, I had the urge to destroy Rory so irrevocably, nothing would be left for others to come and pick up.
Then came the need to cut into Mia so deep, my name would be the only one left inside her for any future lives.
But that black rage instantly faded as soon as she said—or, more accurately, signed—the words.
“I’m yours, Landon.”
Of course she fucking is.
I didn’t need to hear/see the words to know they were true and yet that’s exactly what managed to pull me right off a very bleak and dark edge.
She’s doing it again right now.
The feel of her soft hand against mine is enough to drag me out of the black hole I got myself trapped in after she fell asleep.
My demons retreat to the shadows, quietly hissing and making their discontent clear.
“Is everything okay?” she signs.
I slam my notebook shut, throw it on the table beside me, and grab her by the waist, then sit her on my lap. She feels small and fucking perfect in my arms—like this is exactly where she was always supposed to be. I bury my nose in her slightly damp hair and I breathe in the magnolia scent.
And yes, I have that shampoo and body wash here.
My lungs expand as I inhale her and I release a long hum. “It is now.”
Mia wiggles on my thigh until she’s sitting sideways with her back against the desk. Her eyes glitter in a watery blue, like the Mediterranean Sea under the scorching sun.
Was she always so fucking beautiful or am I falling harder onto that bottomless hole?
She studies me closely, which has been the norm since the rooftop date. As if she’s trying to get under my skin by using every method at her disposal.
“What were you thinking about just now?” she finally signs.
“Why are you asking?”
“You seemed so lost in thought and I want to know what someone like you thinks about when you’re trapped in your own head.”
“Nothing good, to be frank.” My fingers slide beneath the hoodie and I stroke her hip slowly, sensually.
She shudders but soon recovers. “Tell me.”
“It’s best to leave some skeletons in the closet.”
“But I want to know.”
“The skeletons? My, muse. Is this a new kink?”
She teasingly swats my shoulder. “Don’t even think about changing the subject.”
My smile flattens. “My mind is wired to see the bad before the good. In fact, everything sunshine and rainbows is often an afterthought, never a main idea. My instinct is pro-manipulation, corruption, and anarchy, which means it revolts against the very notion of neurotypical people’s socially acceptable behavior. I have a beast that’s in constant need of stimulation and if I don’t satiate those demands, I’ll spiral down a worse path.”
