There is a rush of warmth that floods her veins at the feel of his lips against her skin, because even after all of this time any kind of softness from him still catches her off guard. She was still mostly used to being alone – she had done this alone countless times, certainly far more times than anyone had ever been with her. It was the price she paid for placing her affections in all of the wrong places, but Atrox had a way of reminding her – in that rough, subtle way of his – that for once, she got it right. She did not have to ask for him to be here; he just was.
To hear him say that the twins are like the both of them brings with it another rush of emotion, the kind that momentarily steals the breath from her lungs and makes her heart clench in an achingly elated way. “So they’re perfect, then,” she says with a quiet laugh that is the gentler echo of his, touching both twins once more.
Almost involuntarily her healing spreads through her, erasing the pain that had lingered and relieving some of the exhaustion. She stands, with dirt that still mars her porcelain skin and debris clinging to the tangled strands of her mane – such a contrast when paired with the halo above her head and the glow that radiated from her. The most imperfect angel, always, but at this moment, she does not seem to notice. She can hear the twins shifting and stirring, and she lowers her head to touch the colt as he fights to get his legs beneath him.
They are the perfect blend of the two of them, he says, and she has just begun to wonder if they will be angels or panthers, too, when a thought storms, unbidden and uninvited, into her moment of peace.
Worry suddenly fills her, cold and choking, and she presses her nose into his neck. “What if they aren’t shifters?” She asks in a voice that is hardly above a whisper, and she can feel the panic already begin to rise up in her chest.
To hear him say that the twins are like the both of them brings with it another rush of emotion, the kind that momentarily steals the breath from her lungs and makes her heart clench in an achingly elated way. “So they’re perfect, then,” she says with a quiet laugh that is the gentler echo of his, touching both twins once more.
Almost involuntarily her healing spreads through her, erasing the pain that had lingered and relieving some of the exhaustion. She stands, with dirt that still mars her porcelain skin and debris clinging to the tangled strands of her mane – such a contrast when paired with the halo above her head and the glow that radiated from her. The most imperfect angel, always, but at this moment, she does not seem to notice. She can hear the twins shifting and stirring, and she lowers her head to touch the colt as he fights to get his legs beneath him.
They are the perfect blend of the two of them, he says, and she has just begun to wonder if they will be angels or panthers, too, when a thought storms, unbidden and uninvited, into her moment of peace.
Worry suddenly fills her, cold and choking, and she presses her nose into his neck. “What if they aren’t shifters?” She asks in a voice that is hardly above a whisper, and she can feel the panic already begin to rise up in her chest.
R y A t A h
and you can aim for my heart, go for blood
but you would still miss me in your bones
but you would still miss me in your bones