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I felt like a literal piece of shit. Something undesirable and revolting that had trespassed unwanted, messing up whatever I touched and leaving stains and my shit-smell behind.

I halfheartedly lifted a forkful of veggies to my mouth, putting it in, chewing and swallowing more automatically than anything else before staring down into the bowl.

I wasn’t hungry anymore.

“Eat, Val,” Taavi ordered, his voice quiet, but firm.

“I’m not—”

“You’ve lost at least five pounds in the last week. Maybe more,” he interrupted, putting his book down in his lap. “And you don’t have anywhere to lose it from, so eat. Please.”

I obediently put in another forkful. “I’m eating.”

“Good.” He picked up the book again.

“Taavi?”

“Eat.”

I felt emotion blocking my throat, making it almost impossible to swallow down the forkful of cheesy broccoli and carrot I’d just chewed. I managed, then put my fork back in my bowl.

“Taavi.”

A sigh, and he put the book back down. “Valentine.”

At least he wasn’t mad enough to call me Hart.

“I am sorry.”

“I know. Please eat. Then we can go to sleep.”

I forced myself to take another bite. Then another. Swallowing was painful around the tears that threatened to choke me. But who the fuck was I to get all emotional about the fact that I’d dragged my poor boyfriend halfway across the country and then abandoned him? I had no fucking right to be upset.

So I took another bite. Forcing the food in because Taavi wasn’t wrong. My jeans were hanging a little looser on my hips, the bones almost painfully sharp.

I was working hard to make sure Elliot was eating. I’m sure my mother was making sure Taavi was fed, and she had left several containers of things I could have in the fridge. Veggie bake. Mushroom stroganoff. Baked primavera ziti. All of them with little post-its.

But I hadn’t come home to eat them.

I was a terrible son and a worse boyfriend. That was abundantly clear.

I took another forkful of vegetables, forcing myself to chew, chew, chew, and swallow. Another bite. And another. Until, finally, the last one, the tines of my fork scraping the ceramic of the bowl.

I felt awful, the vegetables and cheese—which I’d figured would be light enough not to do exactly what they were doing—sitting like lead in the pit of my stomach.

I stood up and moved to take my bowl back downstairs.

I couldn’t imagine how Taavi felt. He’d come out here with me, had been putting up with my parents for over a week without me there to run interference with my mother or buffer the inevitable awkwardness of hanging out with my parents or have someone to talk to about the fact that this was probably reminding him of the fact thathisparents had also been murdered. I’d just… left him here.

I sighed heavily as I moved to the doorway. “I shouldn’t have dragged you here,” I muttered at my bowl, not really intending to say it out loud.

But I had said it out loud, and shifters have really good hearing. Especially canid shifters. Taavi didn’t say anything, but when I turned to look over my shoulder, I could see it on his face. Like I’d slapped him. It hit me like a punch to the stomach.

“Taavi—”

He shook his head, his mismatched eyes too bright. “You’re probably right,” he replied, his voice soft and steady, but even I could hear the pain in it. “I can get a ticket to fly back—”

“Taavi—”