Page 13 of Love the Way You Lion (Rise of the Resistance #3)

The Cat Resists The Urge

DELILAH

I lean forward, elbows pressing into the scarred wood of the kitchen table. The room is a cocoon of hushed anticipation, the kind that comes before a storm or an earthquake—something life-altering and unpredictable.

“We will find all the things that we need,” Sari declares with a conviction that is almost palpable, her fingers drumming against the tabletop.

Her eyes, two pools of fierce determination, lock onto mine, and she delivers the promise of an ending—or a beginning—with a magician’s flourish. “And once we do...poof!”

The word hangs in the air between us, a single syllable loaded with the weight of uncharted territory, echoing off the peeling wallpaper and the flickering bulb overhead.

My heart skips a beat, and for a brief moment, I’m suspended in the gravity of what she suggests, feeling the pull of desperate hope against the anchor of hard reality.

She cannot be serious.

“ Poof ?” The word echoes in my mind like a gunshot in an empty hall, and it’s all I can muster.

My face contorts, the horror seeping through the cracks of my worn-out facade.

I’ve been running on fumes, each day bleeding into the next without reprieve.

Comforting others, offering shoulders upon which they could unload their grief—it left me hollow.

Sari’s nod is slow, deliberate, as if she’s aware of the bombshell she’s just dropped, but is too invested in her plan to back down now. The other two women, accomplices in this wild scheme, can’t hide their excitement; their grins are like slashes of triumph across their faces.

“We’ve got it all worked out,” Sari continues, her voice commanding.

“I had Veruca use auto-scan to search records for every source available on the Internet, and Calista has been tracking down leads from practitioners on the other side.” Her fingers dance through the air as if she’s orchestrating the very elements. “We’ve got what we need to begin.”

Their certainty chafes against my raw nerves.

How could they be so sure? So blasé about meddling with the thin veil between life and death?

“They will continue that work as we get further along, so we know where to go next,” she says, leaning in, her gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that seeks to melt away my doubts. “But Deli, I’ve solved it. I can get him back.”

The finality in her tone is meant to be comforting—to spark hope.

Instead, it feels like a cold hand reaching inside my chest, squeezing around my already fragile heart.

My throat tightens, and I can feel the pulse at my temples pounding with each erratic heartbeat.

With a shaky hand, I push a lock of hair behind my ear and try to steady my gaze on Amanda and Belle.

They’re statuesque in their silence, offering no thread of sanity to cling to in the madness that Sari proposes.

My eyes dart between them, desperate for an ally in this lunacy .

“Dead pets? Zombies? Hell, dinosaurs?” The words tumble out, haphazard and laced with incredulity.

“It’s bad fucking juju to bring things back from the dead, Sari.

” The images flash through my mind—scenes from horror flicks, cautionary tales whispered in the dark, all of them screaming that what lies beyond should stay beyond.

Sari’s laugh is light, almost musical, as if we’re discussing nothing more than a child’s bedtime story.

“Oh, come on, Deli! What about the elves and orcs? The lion? Hell, wizards come back from the brink of death. There are plenty of counter stories.” Her hands sweep through the air, painting a picture of triumph over tragedy, of fantasy victories where the impossible becomes possible.

But her words, meant to soothe, only chafe against my raw, frayed edges.

Fantasies. Stories. That’s all they are.

And here we stand on the precipice of reality, where actions have consequences, and playing god comes with a price too steep to pay.

My fingers twitch at my sides, nails biting into my palms as Sari’s ludicrous litany hangs in the air.

The room closes in, a vivid swirl of misguided enthusiasm and dark promises.

I can’t be a part of this—it is wrong and we will suffer the consequences of messing with the natural order.

“Yeah!” Amanda pipes up suddenly, her voice a sharp crack in the tense atmosphere.

She leans forward, eyes alight with a fervor that chills me to the core.

“Don’t forget they do it in comic books all the time, too.

” Her hands animate her point, flipping imaginary pages of the countless graphic novels she’s devoured, where death is but a temporary setback for heroes clad in spandex.

A twinge of betrayal knots my stomach at her words. Amanda does not have a true connection to magic or nature; she’s just along for the ride .

Belle doesn’t miss a beat, seizing the moment like prey.

“It is how everyone’s favorite vampire is still kicking it after one hundred and twenty years,” she adds, the corners of her lips pulling upward into a smirk that suggests she relishes the scandalous edge of our conversation more than the gravity of its implications.

Her dark humor feels like a lead weight in my gut—another person who doesn’t comprehend the terrible possibilities of this mistake.

I stare at them both, the familiar faces twisted into cheerleaders for an act so outlandish, it seems ripped from the very pages of fiction they cite. Their eagerness dances before me, a mirage—or perhaps a mockery—of the stark, painful reality that looms just out of reach.

I clasp my hands together, knuckles white, as I funnel every chaotic emotion into an inner vault that’s already strained at the seams. My chest rises and falls with a labored breath that feels like it might be my last before drowning in the tempest of my own making.

The room blurs for a second as I wrestle control over myself, and when clarity returns, my face is an impassive mask.

“I won’t do it.” The words come out steady, despite my anxiety.

. “It’s not natural, and it goes against every law of the universe.

” I sweep my gaze across their eager faces, hoping to impart the gravity of my refusal.

“Not only is even thinking about it unhealthy and insane, but the kinds of magick and the people you’d have to deal with working them, the bargains you might have to make, are unacceptable. I can’t do it.”

Silence settles like dust after a collapse.

Amanda’s eyes widen slightly, and her lips part as if she’s about to argue, but no words come.

She turns her head toward Belle, who mirrors the motion in a silent exchange that speaks volumes of unspoken thoughts and shared disbelief.

Their synchronized movement is like a dance they’ve rehearsed in secret, and then both sets of eyes drift to Sari.

The architect of this mad plan remains unfazed by my stance, her expression unreadable.

There’s a crackle of something unsaid in the air, a challenge left dangling from the precipice of choice.

Amanda and Belle’s silent exchange crystallizes into a cold, undeniable truth.

The air thickens, my pulse hammers in my ears as I piece together the reality of the situation.

This was planned and they’re all here to high-jack me into complying.

My chest tightens in betrayal. “Oh, fuck them all,” I mutter under my breath, feeling the sting of deception sharper than any blade.

I scan their faces—one by one. Sari’s serene composure, Amanda’s expectant tilt of the head, Belle’s barely contained excitement—they’re not just complicit; they’re invested.

This was an ambush. A meticulously planned snare dressed up in the guise of concern and sisterly unity.

They all knew what she was thinking about and signed on already.

There’s no ignorance here, no hesitancy to be seen in their eyes.

They’ve already navigated the moral labyrinth and emerged ready to act, leaving me behind to grapple with the ethics of it all alone.

“Damn you all for this,” I whisper, more to myself than to them. Their collective resolve is a wall I find myself unprepared to scale, especially now when every part of me screams to flee from the sheer insanity of their scheme.

Sari’s head tilts, the motion as deliberate as a knife twist in my gut. “You didn’t seem to have any problem coming back to life after you and that feathered jackass drained one another and that was a week ago.”

My eyes narrow, lashes almost tangling with the viciousness of my glare. I feel it—the wave, the surge of raw emotion threatening to overwhelm the dam of my self-control. It’s anger, it’s hurt, it’s betrayal—all roiling in a tempest within me. “That was different and you know it! ”

My voice is a low growl, each word a stone thrown hard against her accusation.

Heat creeps up my neck, a telltale sign of my boiling point approaching.

Belle’s lips curl into a sneer, her eyes glinting with mirth and malice.

I can almost hear the crackle of her snark as she speaks, baiting me with every syllable.

“Oh, really? How?” The words slither out, coated in condescension, her smirk widening at the edge of her rouged lips.

The muscles in my jaw tighten, each tooth grinding against its counterpart like tectonic plates on the verge of an earthquake. I lean forward, my voice a venomous hiss slicing through the tension-thick air. “Let me count the ways.”

The room falls silent, the others’ breaths held in anticipation or maybe fear.

“One,” I start, my fingers twitching with the urge to lash out, “it’s none of your fucking business, Belle.

” My glare bores into her, daring her to interrupt.

She doesn’t, so I continue. “Two, we were out for thirty seconds, more like a blip in resuscitation in a hospital than actual death.” The memory flashes, a short circuit of darkness and then light, but nothing like the finality they’re proposing now.

“Three,” the word comes out as a growl, “no one cremated our fucking bodies and had the entire community sit through a funeral.”

The image of grief-stricken faces and the smell of incense from that day claw at my senses, unwelcome and heavy.

“Four,” I say, the intensity in my gaze unyielding, “it was private, personal, short, and Sari wouldn’t even know about it—much less you—if Talia hadn’t spilled the beans to a whiny Wilde.

” The betrayal stings anew; trust shattered like thin ice beneath heavy boots.

“Five,” I finish, my voice dropping to a dangerous octave, “fuck you, I’m done with this shit. ”

Every word is a nail in the coffin of my patience, my tolerance for this absurd conversation.

Each number hangs in the air like a verdict, my chest rising and falling with shallow, rapid breaths.

I’ve laid it all out, stark and raw, the distinction between what happened to me and their ludicrous plan carved into stone.

I shoot up from my chair, a tempest swirling within me, feeling each muscle coil with the tension of a predator ready to pounce.

The room seems to pulse with my fury, the air thickening like blood about to clot.

My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms as if trying to anchor me to some semblance of sanity.

But even that feeble attempt cannot stave off the dark thoughts that beckon, whispering sweet violence to calm the chaos in my heart.

“If this is the way you thank me for supporting you from the moment I knew,” I spit the words out like venom, each syllable dripping with the poison of betrayal, “for abandoning my mate who is dealing with his grief on his own, for not dealing with my grief, and how you honor your dead loved one, you can shove it where the sun doesn’t shine and twist.”

My breath comes out in ragged gasps, an echo of the exertion it takes not to act on the rage that’s threatening to spew forth.

I pivot, prepared to storm out, the floorboards creaking beneath my weight, a testament to the heaviness of my departure.

That’s when I sense him—my husband—the sudden drop in temperature, the faint shimmer in the air as he materializes.

Thank fuck.

He stands there, imposing, his eyes scanning the scene, confusion etched across his features like lines on a map that lead to nowhere.

He’s clearly walked into the eye of the storm uninvited, his presence an unexpected variable in their equation of madness.

As I approach, his brow furrows deeper, reading the turmoil written all over me.

“Take me home. Now, please,” I murmur, my voice cracking under the strain of suppressed sobs. His arms are my sanctuary as they encircle me, a shield against the madness that threatens to devour my resolve. He nods, understanding without needing any more words.

His response is swift, a low growl of assent that vibrates through the tense air.

“My pleasure, heart of mine.” He casts a withering glare over my shoulder at the women who dared to push me to this precipice.

In their silence, I can almost hear the cogs of regret grinding in their minds, but it’s too late for second thoughts.

I feel his power coil around us, the world blurring at the edges as he prepares to whisk us away from this place of betrayal and reckless schemes.

For an instant, the tempest inside me eases, making room for a sliver of solace.

It’s fleeting, this sense of peace, a mere wisp of tranquility in the storm that rages within, but I cling to it desperately. Because for now, it’s enough.

It has to be.