Page 11 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

My mate.

Officially, too, as of that beautiful, perfect moment under the cherry trees where he asked me to be his girl with uncertain, slightly shaking hands.

He's already turning his head down and away, a slow, defeated movement, giving me space to run, as if there's a chance in hell that's what I want to do right now. His hands drop to his sides, fingers curling into loose fists, and I physically see him fighting to keep from reaching up to cover his face again.

A bright pink cherry blossom petal catches on the exposed muscle of his jaw. It flutters with each of his shallow breaths.

His eyes—those beautiful blue eyes that are still completely his—slide back up to track across my face with desperate intensity even as he lowers his head.

He's memorizing me. The way you memorize a photograph before burning it.

"I'm not going anywhere," I promise him, forcing my voice to stay steady. I stroke my fingers along the one part of his jaw that isn't completely scarred and damaged, trying to turn his face back toward mine.

I might as well be trying to move a statue.

My fingers come away sticky with blood from the wound over his eye where Claire's nails tore the scar open. The cuts aren't as bad as they looked initially. Ragged, but not deep. More damage was done to his psyche than his flesh.

"Can I clean up the blood?" I ask as gently as I can.

More silent staring. Not that he can speak, and I'm fully understanding why he can't speak now. His face and throat are so badly scarred.

As I dab the blood away with my sleeve, his massive frame goes slack, and before I can react, he slumps forward with a broken growl, his head pressing into my shoulder like he's trying to disappear into me.

Or say goodbye.

"Hey," I murmur, my hands automatically coming up to cradle his head, running my fingers through his dark hair. "It's okay. You took care of me. Remember? I've got you this time."

I shift away from him slightly, pulling the cream scarf from around my neck. The silk is soft, perfect for this. When I gently push him back against the tree, he lets me, without resisting.

Or reacting at all, really, even when I carefully loop my cream scarf around the lower half of his face.

"Adorable," I tell him, managing a smile, and it’s the truth. "Like a giant goth warrior who raided my closet."

No response.

Not even a huff of that growling laugh I love so much. He's gone somewhere too deep inside himself.

Somewhere I can't follow.

Somehow, I manage to get us both standing. Not because I have any chance of even lifting his arm when he's dead weight like this. But he moves when I guide him.

There's nobody home. It's like maneuvering a massive, compliant zombie, if zombies had beautiful blue eyes full of nothing but static.

"Come on, big guy," I say softly, steering him toward the passenger’s side of his blacked-out SUV. "Let's get you home. Or… back to the motel, at least."

He doesn't seem to register it when I take the keys from his pocket. Just folds himself into the seat and sits there, staring at nothing while my scarf hangs loose around his lower face. Some of the sharp teeth showing through his torn cheek are visible above the edge.

I reach out to try to fix it, knowing that’s what he would want, and he doesn’t seem to register that, either.

He doesn't even lean into my touch like he usually would.

Oh, gods…

I pull out my phone before starting the engine.

IVY

Hey. I'm coming back with Wraith. It didn't go well. He's in shock.