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Because he didn’t shut me out.
He wanted to stay in touch, and someone prevented us from doing that.
And I have a sinking feeling that I know who.
I bury my face in my hands, allowing my emotions to overwhelm me as I weep into them. It’s not enough- I grab the pillow from behind me, slamming it against my face and using it to muffle my frustrated scream.
I let myself just fucking sob for a few solid minutes, letting it all out. Then I collect myself, lowering the pillow, wiping the wetness from my cheeks, and swinging my legs over the side of the cot, resolute in what I need to do.
There’s a painful tugging in my lower belly when I rise to stand, but for the most part, I’m all healed up, the gunshot wound quickly becoming a distant memory. Thank god for shifter healing, right? I definitely need a new shirt, though. The bloodstains on this one are more than a little off-putting.
While protocol typically calls for checking out of the infirmary after an injury and getting the go-ahead from the doc on staff, I just slip out without telling anyone, swinging by my room to change my shirt before heading up to the roof.
Because somehow, I know that’s where he’ll be.
I grit my teeth against the dull pain in my belly as I grip the rusty rungs of the old utility ladder and climb up, an odd sense of numbness settling over me.
If I’d actually received those messages from Madd, things could’ve been so different. My entire life could’ve been different. Instead, I endured years of pain, trying to heal from the worst heartbreak imaginable… forwhat? Because someone thought it’d be better that way?
I’m not sure which is worse- knowing that Madd never meant to break my heart, or having it broken all over again by learning this now, after eight wasted years.
I haul myself up the final rungs of the ladder, climbing off onto the rooftop as my pulse picks up tempo. I swear I can sense Madd’s presence before I even step around the big AC unit to see him sitting on the ledge looking out over the practice field, and I freeze in my tracks, just staring at his back for a moment as nervous energy skitters through me.
“You tried to keep in touch.”
He slowly turns to look over his shoulder, his dark blue eyes meeting mine. “So did you.”
I suck in a sharp breath, my chest burning. I don’t know what to say, where to begin… so much damage has been done up until this point that this thing between us may no longer even be salvageable. But as we stare at one another across the rooftop, that magnetic pull between us stronger than ever, I know our story is far from over.
“Come here,” Madd rasps, pulling his legs up and twisting around, kicking them out over the other side of the ledge.
My feet move toward him almost on their own accord, and as soon as I’m close enough, Madd reaches out for me, pulling me in to stand between his spread legs and wrapping his strong arms around me tightly.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Sloane,” he croaks, hooking his chin over my shoulder and burying his face in my hair. “For all of it.”
I melt into him, wrapping my own arms around his neck and losing myself in the heart-wrenching familiarity of his scent, his touch. “I know,” I whisper, carding my fingers through his unkempt hair.
We just hold one another for a long moment until I’m climbing up into his lap, straddling his waist and pressing myself even closer to his chest- like if I let go, he’ll suddenly disappear.
Eight years.
All the longing, the heartache, the misery was fornothing. We were robbed of all that time together, and for the life of me, I can’t understandwhy.
I finally pull away, leaning back with my arms still draped around Madd’s neck so I can look into his eyes.
“Is there any way you can ever forgive me?” he asks, his voice raspy with regret.
I tilt my head, studying his face. “That depends. Were you just being an asshole because you thought I ghosted you, or is that part of your personality now?”
He hangs his head, shoulders slumping.
“I’m only teasing,” I chuckle.
Madd picks his head back up, shaking it defeatedly. “How can you joke around at a time like this?”
“Because it’s either that or bawl my eyes out, and I’ve done enough crying over the last eight years to last a lifetime.”
He winces at that, his grip around my waist tightening. “Fuck, Dutch, if I knew…”
