Page 18 of Love the Way You Lion (Rise of the Resistance #3)

The Coyote Strikes Again

DELILAH

“ L ove,” I whisper to myself, tracing the letters with a fingertip that trembles ever so slightly.

The word hangs in the air, a lifeline thrown across the chasm of my solitude.

I clutch Taurus’s note like a talisman, the paper crinkling under the pressure of my grip.

The inked words blur for a moment as I steady my breathing.

I grip the edge of the note, feeling the rough texture of paper against my fingertips.

It’s a tangible reminder that despite everything, life keeps moving, keeps demanding.

“I got a summons from the Company today.” My eyes dart across the lines, and I can almost hear his voice echoing each word in my head. His tone is always so matter-of-fact with business, but there’s an undercurrent of excitement now that wasn’t there before.

I love the way he switches back and forth.

“Both I and the golden goddess are being ‘requested’ to appear.” I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The ‘golden goddess’—his primary mate who is now permanently bonded to my primary. A chuckle escapes me at the thought, a brief respite from the tension coiling within.

“My guess is the sods got her brief about what’s been going on with us and are ready to grant my request about you helping with the shit I do.

” I blink, processing. I’m in this now, truly in it.

No longer just a spectator to his world, but a participant.

It’s daunting, yet it ignites something fierce and eager in my core.

“I don’t know what’s going to go down, but I’ll be back.” There’s a promise in those words, one that goes beyond the physical. He’ll return to me, no matter what the Company throws at him—or us.

“I have to jet, pet.” Just like that, I can picture him: leather duster, the slight crease between his brows as he steps through our door, determination etched into every line of his body.

“I love you always.”

Though he isn’t here to witness it, I whisper into the silence of the room, “I love you, too.”

My voice doesn’t tremble. It’s strong, sure—a reflection of the new purpose blossoming inside me. I fold the note carefully, securing it with all the others, a paper testament to our strange, chaotic dance.

I trace the final signature with my thumb, the looping letters familiar and dear.

Taurus. His name is like a talisman, etched at the bottom of the hastily scribbled note.

I trace the letters, finding a measure of comfort in their familiarity.

With a deep inhale, I steel myself for what’s ahead.

For the Company, for him, and for me. The unknown may be vast, but together, we’re a force to be reckoned with.

I’m ready .

The room is quiet around me; the stillness punctuated only by the occasional distant hum of traffic outside.

It’s a stark contrast to the chaos that usually swirls within these walls, the echoes of arguments and laughter now just ghosts in the silence.

I’m alone—with his words, with the promise they hold.

I sit on the edge of our bed, the sheets cold and smooth beneath me.

The scent of Taurus lingers—musky and warm—and I close my eyes for a moment, letting it envelop me.

The spark he mentioned, it’s there, flickering in the pit of my stomach, threatening to ignite something I thought was long extinguished.

A purpose, he says. A chance to be useful again, to not just exist, but to live.

A tiny spark of light flickers within me, an ember of hope that refuses to be snuffed out despite the accident’s lingering shadow.

The thought of working again, of having a purpose beyond the confines of these four walls, sends a thrill up my spine.

Even if it means enduring arduous training or mind-numbing protocols, it’s a chance to rebuild something lost—a chance to feel whole once more.

“Working would give me a purpose,” I mumble, giving voice to the idea, testing how it tastes on my tongue.

It’s been too long since I’ve had anything meaningful to fill my days.

The accident, that cruel thief, stole more than just my mobility—it took my sense of self.

But this, this could be a way back to who I was, even if the path is littered with boring training sessions and company protocols.

The idea of accomplishment, of contributing to something larger than myself, chases away the cobwebs of inactivity that have shrouded my days.

My fingers itch for action, for the tactile sensation of doing, moving, being part of the intricate dance Taurus navigates daily.

The note in my hand is more than an invitation; it’s a call to arms.

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth—a rare visitor these days. To be with Taurus, to weave my life back into his beyond the confines of these walls and the whispers of pity from those who no longer know how to talk to me—that’s a prize worth any obstacle.

My gaze drifts to the empty space beside me where he should be.

Months have passed in a blur of avoidance and excuses, keeping everyone at bay.

Shea’s absence is a relief. Rhea and Alistair are mere memories, and Mercury—a comet passing through my orbit all too infrequently.

Wilde and Sari, once fixtures, now repelled by an invisible force field of my own making.

And Constantine... I can’t deal with his drama, not when it’s probably as fabricated as Amanda’s near-death theatrics.

“Even if they make me go through a bunch of boring training,” I murmur to the empty room, “I’d be able to have something to accomplish and feel good about.” The words hang in the air, a mantra for the journey ahead. With each repetition, they grow stronger, carving a path through doubt and pain.

“I’m damned tired of everything being awful,” I admit to the empty room. It’s become my mantra, a loop that plays endlessly in my head, overshadowing moments of joy with its bleak refrain. Wilde’s absence might sting less than I let on, and maybe, just maybe, I’m better off without the lot of them.

“Ouch,” I say to no one, wincing at the bitterness that seeps into my thoughts unbidden.

I stand, smoothing out the creases in Taurus’s note before sliding it into the nightstand drawer with the care of a curator handling a priceless artifact.

There it rests atop his other messages, each one a piece of the puzzle that is us.

Taurus—steadfast Taurus—believes in me enough to make this happen .

Pulling my hair back into a loose ponytail, I approach the window, gazing out into the darkened landscape. The night is still, almost expectant. I press a hand to the cool glass, feeling its solid reality beneath my palm.

“I need a purpose other than running the community,” I reaffirm, watching my breath fog up the surface. Each word acts as a stepping stone, guiding me back to myself, to the life that awaits with open arms.

Taurus might be gone for now, but we’re in this together. Every challenge, every victory—it’s ours to share. I’m not just a bystander in his story; I’m a co-author, penning the next chapter with steady hands. When he returns, I’ll be ready to stand by his side, no longer diminished but renewed.

“Let them try to train me,” I say with a half-smile, drawing strength from the very thought. “I’ll be ready for whatever comes next.”

I shuffle through the clutter on my desk, searching for something that isn’t there.

The silence of the room is a stark contrast to the chaos I’ve kept at bay.

It’s been months since I’ve had to deal with Shea’s insistent chatter or Rhea and Alistair’s dramatics; their absence is like a balm to my overstimulated senses.

Rafe, bless his interference, has done well in shielding me from Wilde and Sari’s incessant drama.

My world feels smaller, quieter, and while it’s not entirely empty, it’s filled only with those I allow.

With Taurus’ return looming, a glimmer of anticipation cuts through the stillness of my self-imposed exile.

Leaning back in my chair, I consider the remaining thorn in my side—Constantine.

His presence is like a persistent echo, a reminder of connections I’d rather sever.

The news of Amanda’s brush with death, or lack thereof, had given him an excuse to latch on, playing up his distress like a Shakespearean tragedy .

“Please,” I mutter to myself as I toss aside another useless paper. “The drama of it all could fuel a soap opera.”

I know I should be more sympathetic, but my patience wears thin. Sari’s grandstanding about having ‘powerful people’ on her side makes me wary of anyone connected to her, especially Constantine.

Yet, I’ve let him hover on the fringes, his sad stories weaving around my better judgement.

“Enough,” I say aloud, pushing away from the desk. Standing up, I stretch out the knots in my shoulders. It’s time to reclaim my space, to prepare for the work ahead and the partnership with Taurus that promises to be my salvation.

“Let them gather their allies,” I whisper defiantly to the four walls. “I’ll be ready for that, too.”

I open the drawer of the nightstand, the one where I keep the rest of his letters—the ones filled with promises and plans.

This new one, with its potential for change, slips in with the others, a tangible piece of hope in a sea of messiness.

Maybe working with Taurus will be the turning point I need, or maybe I’m just clinging to another dream destined to shatter.

“Either way, it’s something,” I murmur, closing the drawer with a soft click and letting my fingers linger on the polished wood.

For a moment, there’s stillness. Then, with a deep breath, I square my shoulders and turn away from the nightstand, ready to face whatever comes next.

Determination sets my shoulders straight as I face the closet.

The big party looms on the horizon, a beacon of normalcy in a sea of grief and betrayal.

I shuffle over to the closet, my hands trembling slightly as I reach for the leather-bound binders.

They’re heavy with possibilities—a collection of outfits meticulously organized by occasion and mood.

Wilde’s death left a gaping hole in our tight-knit circle, a silence too loud to ignore. And Sari... her deceit stings like a slap, betrayal from within our ranks festering like a wound that refuses to heal.

My fingers wrap around the handle, ready to rifle through outfit binders for the perfect ensemble when my phone shatters the quiet, its shrill tone slicing through the room. For a heartbeat, hope flutters in my chest. It could be Taurus. I lunge for it, ready to melt into his words.

But no, it’s her. Sari, with her impeccable timing for disruption. Why she chooses this moment to dredge up old wounds, I’ll never understand. My hand hovers over the phone, indecision clawing at me.

“Fuck,” I hiss between clenched teeth.

The timing is impeccable, uncanny even. Why she chooses now, when I’m adrift in a sea of hurt and scheming, to weasel her way back into my life is beyond me. But Sari always did have a knack for picking the worst moments to resurface.

With resignation clawing at my insides, I press the phone to my ear, bracing for her onslaught of excuses and manipulations. Her voice spills out in torrents, a deluge of half-hearted apologies and self-justifications that make my head spin.

“Okay. Okay,” I cut in, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. “No, I’m not busy right this second. ”

A lie. I am busy—busy trying to piece together some semblance of control over my shattered reality.

The call ends, and the room echoes with a silence that feels like an accusation.

In the reflection of the darkened screen, I catch a glimpse of myself—a puppet dancing on the strings of obligation.

With a sigh, I stand, steeling myself for the confrontation ahead, each step a march toward a battlefield I never chose.

“Dammit,” I mutter after hanging up, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on me. All I wanted was to indulge in the simple pleasure of choosing a dress, to lose myself in the fantasy of a party I don’t even wish to attend.

Instead, fate conspires to drag me back into the mire.

The universe has a sick sense of humor, thrusting me into this farce when all I yearn for is a pause button on life’s remote control. But no, the cosmos directs its twisted narrative with me as the reluctant star.

“Fine,” I mutter to the empty room, echoing back at me like a judgment. I pluck a random outfit from the binder, not caring for its details or its promise. It’s a placeholder, a uniform for duty rather than delight.

“The universe hates me,” I conclude with a sigh, tossing the phone onto the bed as if it’s the source of all my misfortune.

Why else would it conspire to keep me from the simple joys, to chain me to conversations I’ve already lived a thousand times in my head?