Page 46 of Bite Back

ASHER

My thoughts pound into me as I take each step of the stairs leading to my apartment.

During the day, I did my best to concentrate on practice and research, to put last night out of my mind.

Even with my best efforts, it was always there, lurking.

The crushed expression on her face. And I’m the one that put it there.

Now that I’m almost home, though, everything I’ve tried to push away comes back full force. The way I shut down. She gave me a second chance and I blew it. Again.

Last night, I wanted to run from her. Now, I want to run from myself.

Vampires like the one that took my family, the one that hurt Claude and me, the targets I hunt are the exception, not the norm. But simply knowing that doesn’t change my instincts, my knee-jerk reactions. And the fact I didn’t reel in that initial reaction hurt Delilah. Just like I hurt Claude.

Fuck.

I pause at the top of the stairs, steeling myself, trying to calm my riot of thoughts.

I discipline my breathing, slowing it to a steady rate.

In and out. In and out. In and out. I memorize the scene around me and describe it to myself to break up my train of thought.

The welcome mat, worn bare from my boots.

The scuff on the wall from moving in. The leafy fern next to the door stubbornly holding on, tendrils trailing down to the ground, thriving despite my failure to water it nearly as much as it deserves.

The faint buzz of traffic from the street below.

The clatter of pots and pans and wafting aroma of spices from the neighbors’ apartment.

I can’t fully sort out my jumbled mind in the time I pause there, but Delilah can hear and likely scent me. I don’t want to stretch things out for her. Not after what I already put her through. We need to talk about what happened.

The weight of Delilah’s gaze greets me the second I cross the threshold. Heaviness hangs in the air between us. I drop my backpack to the floor, and the thump echoes through the loft.

The shades are pulled down, blanketing the apartment in shadows despite the late afternoon sun.

Only thin strips of bright light peeking around the edges.

It’s easier for Delilah’s still sensitive eyes this way.

But normally she pulls them up in the late afternoon, despite the pain the light inflicts on her.

All too often I’ve found her armed with her sunglasses, drinking in the views of the city below.

I asked her once, and she said she didn’t want to forget what it felt like to be human and normal.

She refuses to stop loving the sunlight, however much her body rejects it.

Not today though.

The gloom fits my mood and, by the looks of it, hers as well. The corners of her mouth dip downward in a frown, and a furrow creases the skin between her brows.

There are so many things I want to say. So many things I should have said sooner.

Well, really, they all boil down to the same thing: I’m falling for you. You’re smart and funny and kind and beautiful. I’m sorry my past makes things complicated. But I want to work through it. I want to try, for you.

I don’t want to say the wrong thing, to scare her off more than I already have. The words choke up in my throat, and I bite my tongue, sharp enough that the metallic tang of my own blood blooms across my mouth. Quickly, I swallow down the taste. Is that what it tastes like to her?

Delilah’s nostrils flare, and her pupils dilate. The tendons in her neck pull taut.

If I were someone else, I’d draw her to my arms and kiss her, so she could taste what she craves. Intellectually, it’s not a big deal. But emotionally…that’s exactly the goddamn problem. We can’t change what happened. Not really.

Her control’s excellent, but at the end of the day, she’s a new vampire. And I’m a human, one with every reason not to trust vampires. I’m clinging to the hope that we can work this out despite the dangers and differences between us.

I hope she’s willing to try too.

I don’t want to lose this woman. My gaze travels along the gray veins snaking across the marble counter, like I’ll find the perfect script to articulate everything I’m struggling to voice. I clear my throat.

And, then she presses beside me, torso brushing against my arm. Even with so much uncertain and unspoken between us, something about her tethers me, grounds me. Her fingers tilt my chin down, meeting my gaze with her red-rimmed eyes.

“Hey.” I can say that much. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.

“Hey.” A ghost of a smile passes across her face. “I fucked up last night.” A peace offering. Neither of us wants to fight each other. But here we are anyway. I won’t fight her, but I’ll fight for her.

“No, I fucked up.” My reaction scared her away. She probably thinks I see her as a monster, someone like Luka. Her hand drifts up and rests on my forearm.

“I fucked up,” she repeats as though the words are an incantation that could erase what happened. She draws a deep breath. “I scared you. I don’t ever want to scare you.” Her voice breaks. “I don’t ever want to scare anyone.” A single tear tumbles down her cheek, pearly against her pale skin.

And there it is, laid plain and bare. I want to deny it. I don’t want to admit weakness. I don’t want to contemplate the mental scars I have that have never truly healed. I don’t want it to be true.

But it is. And it fucking hurts. But I owe Delilah the truth.

The words leave me softly, a mumble barely audible to my human ears.

“You did.” It hovers there between us, raw and real and terrifying.

The moment the words leave my mouth, I wish I could take them back.

As though saying something renders it more true.

As if we bottle up the problem and ignore it, it’ll just go away. If only.

“I—” My words stumble out of me, halting and tentative. “I know you didn't mean to scare me.”

Heartbeats pass, and we stand there frozen. Delilah’s stopped breathing, standing preternaturally still.

“But I did.” She says it with a certain finality, like she’s pronouncing a death. And maybe it is a death. The death of a future we’d just begun to imagine. I shouldn’t be this cut up about the potential end of a relationship. Short and sweet. Maybe that’s all we were ever meant to be.

But I don’t believe that. Not really, because if we weren’t more, then why do I feel like everything’s crashing down around me?

I don’t want to burn this down. I just want her. Yes, she scared me. But the thought of losing her scares me even more.

So despite my urge to swallow everything down, I drive forward.

Because my instincts to cover everything up, to paper it all over, to avoid tough conversations, aren’t what I need here.

What we need here. Because I’m not going to lose her without a fight.

Without laying it all bare and trying to see if we can make it work.

“It embarrasses me, honestly. I feel like I’m controlled by my past. And I hate that my reaction hurt you.

That it made you feel scary and scared. Because I know you have your own past.” I run a hand through my hair, pushing it back out of my face.

“I’m not fragile. And this isn’t about me.” Her voice cracks again, and my heart cracks right along with it. I hate that she thinks she’s the only one who messed up, the only one who is messed up.

I pull her into my arms, and she burrows into me, hands grabbing against the soft fabric of my t-shirt and her face, burying herself against my chest. Dampness spreads where her tears meet my shirt.

I bring my arms around, anchoring her to me.

With my fingers, I trace the crosshatch pattern of her flannel shirt.

Praline curls around our legs, warm and insistent.

For a while, I don’t speak. I’m not the guy who has all the right words. But I’m the guy who’s here, trying my best. I’ll always try my best for her. And even though she doesn’t acknowledge it, she’s trying her best too. It’s just hard. And that’s okay.

“It’s okay to show your scars sometimes. Just because yours aren’t on your skin doesn’t make them any less real.” Maybe not the perfect words, but I mean them.

Sobs continue to wrack her body, shaking her torso, and I tilt her face up so her eyes, still glittering with tears, meet mine.

So that she can see the truth written there.

The corner of her mouth quirks up. I lean in and catch the tears spilling down her cheeks with my lips.

I try to tell myself the salt doesn’t taste like a coming goodbye.

That maybe I really can capture her pain, kiss it better. If only.