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Wes takes my hand and places it over his chest. The fabric of his T-shirt is soft, and his body is warm. Hard yet comfortable. His heart beats rapidly under my palm, similarly to how fast mine gets when I feel a panic attack coming on.
“I don’t know if I want this with you,” I whisper. “I used to, but now…”
He shakes his head. “Maybe I’m not making myself clear. This is happening, Athelia, and there isn’t a thing you can do to stop it.”
“That’s not love.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” Wes kisses me, his lips barely touching mine for more than a second. “Call it obsession. Sickness. Whatever it is, I’ve tried, and I can’t stop it. Neither can Cal and Kellan.”
My heart—mysoul—is drawn to you with so much force that even gods couldn’t stand between us.
When he saidthat to me last night, I hoped he was being dramatic. We were all tired. But now, there’s no denying it.
I can’t hide from them.
I’ve never been able to.
My fingers curl into his shirt. I’m too tired to continue this conversation, but I need to know. “How am I supposed to know that something like this won’t happen again?”
“Quite simply because I know not to trust my bastard of a stepfather,” Wes says, his tone dark. “I never should’ve in the first place.”
“And if—”
“There are noifs,”he growls. “The four of us are set in stone.”
I sigh. He’s being ridiculous, but even during freshman year—before everything went to shit, that is—the guys were oddly possessive of me. Maybe that’s just who they are.
But can I ever truly trust them?
Or… forgive them?
What if I want to get to that point?
No. God, fuck no. Absolutely not.
“Athelia,” Wes murmurs.
I blink my eyes open, not even remembering when I closed them. “Hmm?”
The determination has faded from his eyes, replaced with a softness I haven’t seen in years. “You need to rest. We can continue this conversation later.”
Wes pulls me so I’m in a semi-sitting position and props me up with pillows. According to Cal, I should try to sleep like thisfor a couple days. I must’ve slid down the pillows during our conversation.
After Wes has positioned the blankets over my shoulders, he searches through my crumpled comforter and places Mildred in my lap. My heart warms at the gesture, and I smile at him tiredly.
“Her name is Mildred,” I mumble.
Wes snorts. “Why’d you give her an old lady name?”
I elbow him in the gut, and he grunts. “I thought it was pretty when I was little. My parents got her for me when I was five.”
“Fair enough,” he wheezes.
“Now shut up and let me sleep.”
“You’re the one who started talking.”
“Shut. up.”
