Page 20 of Love the Way You Lion (Rise of the Resistance #3)

The Cat Distracts Herself

DELILAH

I slump into the battered leather chair, a sigh escaping me as the door clicks shut behind Sari.

The whole tête-à-tête was exhausting—the kind that leaves your soul feeling frayed at the edges.

She had been all apologies at first, her words dripping with a sweetness that felt more like syrup laced with arsenic than genuine remorse.

But that didn’t last—she didn’t call me there for apologies.

The pandering followed, each sentence carefully constructed to remind me of old times, our friendship, the adventures we’d weathered side by side.

But beneath those honeyed phrases lay veiled passive-aggressive jibes, tiny barbs meant to prick my conscience, to awaken some dormant sense of duty that would compel me to change my mind.

“Deli, I only said I wasn’t going on the quest because of you,” she had said, her voice quivering with a cocktail of anger and desperation. “You know this is important to me, and now I’m going to resent you for holding me back. ”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. I could only stare at her, incredulous. Was she trying to paint me as the villain in her twisted narrative? The one who’d strap her down and keep her from her precious, ill-advised mission?

“I think you’ve gone off your rocker this time, Sari,” I murmured, almost to myself, the fatigue from our argument settling deep in my bones. Her eyes had flashed, a storm brewing within them, but she simply turned on her heel and left without another word.

Now, alone with my thoughts, I can’t help but wonder if there’s any coming back from this. If the Sari I knew—the one who would laugh until tears streamed down her face, who would throw herself into danger to save a stray kitten—was still in there somewhere, or if obsession has truly consumed her.

Pacing the length of my living room, I feel like each step is a silent refusal of Sari’s manipulations.

The idea that she can push me into something so abhorrent is laughable, if it weren’t so damn serious.

I pause at the window, gazing out at nothing in particular, and murmur to myself, “To quote a rocker, I’ll do a lot of shit for people I love, but I won’t do that.

” My reflection in the glass doesn’t waver.

I want nothing to do with this hare-brained plot—not one damn thing.

My hands ball into fists as I replay the accusations thrown at me again.

In Sari’s skewed vision, my steadfast refusal paints me as an awful friend.

She claims my struggle to cope with Wilde’s death and her mad quest to bring him back from the grave means I don’t value our bond—or the love we supposedly share.

“Preventing her from being happy,” I scoff, the words bitter on my tongue. As if happiness can be plucked from the depths of necromancy .

Congratulations on keeping up with Deli-ashians, babe.

Sarcasm drips from my thoughts as I consider how Sari and her deceased mate have been a cloud over my life for a year now. I stop abruptly, shaking my head. No more of this ‘one answer, no gray area’ bullshit. I refuse to let her dictate the terms of our friendship or my morality.

Not today. Not ever.

Unease coils tighter in my belly, the possibilities of what Sari might concoct sending shivers down my spine.

She hasn’t abandoned her dark designs; that much is clear.

And those so-called friends of hers, the cackling crones who echo her madness—they’re surely huddled together this very moment, concocting something vile.

I stop at the window, staring out into the darkening sky, the fading light mirroring the dimming of my peace of mind. What revenge is she plotting? What horrid scheme are they stitching together in the shadows?

A sigh escapes my lips as I turn away from the glass, the chill of the evening seeping through the pane.

The thought of Sari’s retribution hangs over me like a specter, invisible yet palpable.

Whatever it is, I know one thing for certain—it’s not cast off.

It’s brewing, bubbling under the surface, waiting for the right moment to erupt.

Walking to the fireplace, I pick up a frame that’s face down on the mantel. I brush my fingers against the photo of Wilde and me, the memory stinging fresh like a wound that refuses to heal. Wilde’s death was a tragedy, and we mourned.

Goddess, did we mourn.

Even after all the bad things that happened these past few months, his absence is a hollow ache that throbs with every beat of my heart. A mate dying should hit you hard—I know it’s supposed to—but reality isn’t some cinematic arc where grief can just be neatly resolved or undone.

“Maybe we should cancel the party,” I say to myself, my voice barely loud enough to carry over the silence that has settled around me. It hangs there, like a fragile bubble ready to burst.

That was something I said to Sari as well, but she simply snorted and brushed me off.

Her opinion is that it won’t be weird to have a huge BDSM party mere weeks after someone in the community died, and I wonder how it could not be weird.

But there are larger concerns—our community could use something that will let them have fun, and our parties always lead to that.

But it’s just so dour around town and I don’t want to ruin Rafe’s birthday because we didn’t take him into account.

I don’t see how in any universe everything would be better by the time the party happens.

The thought itself feels like an insult to Wilde’s memory, a mockery of the loss we’re still nursing.

Yet Sari seems hell-bent on this path, convinced that spending time with her mate amidst a crowd will somehow ease the pain.

That’s when I tried to tell her how on guard everyone will be. Wilde’s accident still seems unreal in this place where the amazing happens all day every day. I’ve noticed even the gear-heads have slowed down their antics since someone who shouldn’t have been able to die was in a fatal car wreck.

Of course, clones and droids alike are watching their mates like hawks and neither I nor Rafe are exempt from that overprotectiveness.

Sari said it would be fine and we’d all hop from place to place, visiting and doing what people always do to prep for our parties. Hide-and-seek, secret rendezvous, and all the typical prank war stuff would cheer people up, in her opinion.

“Seriously?” My eyebrows arch in disbelief. “You think Taurus is going to let me out of his sight in that kind of chaos? And Talia—she’s got her claws out for anyone who even glances at her new mate.” I shuddered at the thought of the potential bloodshed.

Her snarky replies are a distant echo as I picture the scenario unfold—a grotesque masquerade of forced merriment, while shadows lurk beneath our feet.

I finally relented, knowing full well I’d rather face the wrath of a party gone sideways than the cold, creeping dread of what Sari might do in her desperation.

The thought of the upcoming social disaster doesn’t sit well, but it’s a risk I’ll have to take.

Better the devil you can see, I suppose, than the one plotting your downfall behind closed doors.

My fingers tremble slightly as I fumble with the buttons on my blouse while I work to calm my frayed nerves.

The fabric feels heavy, tainted by the weight of our conversation, and I’m desperate to shed it like a second skin.

Clothes pool around my ankles, and I step out of the heap, feeling lighter, almost unburdened.

The cool air brushes against my bare skin, a welcome contrast to the stifling atmosphere that had clung to me since the meeting.

I yank one of Taurus’s shirts from the hook behind the door, the familiar scent of him—a mix of pine and something indefinably wild—wrapping around me like an embrace.

I slip into it, finding comfort in the way it hangs loose and long on my frame.

I can’t let her consume every moment, every thought.

My resolve hardens; I need something, anything, to divert this torrent of frustration before it consumes me entirely. The last thing I want is for Taurus to come home to this storm cloud hanging over us.

Glass clinks as I pour myself a drink, the amber liquid promising a temporary reprieve. Drink in hand, I summon the binder with a flick of my wrist, the magic pulling it through the space between where it lays in my closet at the Maison to here, now, landing with a soft thud on the bed.

The binder opens with a whisper, and I flip through the pages, each one a meticulously organized parade of outfits. Skimming past corsets, masks, and feathers, I search for inspiration, for some spark that might ignite a sense of anticipation for the party rather than dread.

At least this won’t make me want to stab myself in the eye balls.

Outfits blur together, sequins and silk vying for attention, but it’s all just background noise to the cacophony in my head. Still, I force myself to focus on the task, to drown out the echoes of Sari’s words with the quiet rustle of pages turning under my fingertips.

It’s a small victory, but it’s mine.

Flipping through the binder, I can’t help but let out a sigh. It couldn’t hurt to lose myself in this mini-universe of fabric and fantasy, even if just for an hour or two. The pages fan out before me, each tab a gateway to memories of wild nights and the warm buzz of laughter.

I linger on a page, fingertips grazing over the glossy photo of a crimson corset paired with a raven-feathered mask.

Rafe really outdid himself with this system.

After a few parties where we’d dug through piles of costumes like scavengers at a feast, he came up with a brilliant plan.

We would sort, catalog, and store our entire myriad of costumes and accessories in tabbed binders .

Hex built the basement vault. Then he and Rafe spent six weeks making the seven binders full of items. They annotated outfits with accessories, locations, hair accessories, and shoes. Everything is cross-referenced and organized down to the last sequin.

Our house is an icon of well-oiled cooperation and support.

As my fingers trace the edge of another costume’s page—a latex ensemble that could make a succubus blush—I hear the familiar sound of Taurus’s presence. I don’t need to look up to know he’s here; there’s an energy shift in the room that heralds his arrival every time.

But I turn my head anyway, catching him as he walks out of our closet, his movements silent yet commanding. The tiny bird tattooed on his chest catches the light from the chandelier, its metallic sheen alive against his skin, feathers practically rustling as if caught in an imperceptible breeze.

For a moment, I’m lost in the sight of him, the chaos of my earlier confrontation with Sari fading into the background. It’s just Taurus and me, and the promise of distraction within these pages.

He crosses the room, each step a silent assertion of his presence that commands my undivided attention. The sight of him—so familiar yet so capable of leaving me momentarily breathless—sometimes makes me stop in place, even now.

The small, inked bird seems to take flight across the expanse of his chest, its wings subtly shifting with the play of light and shadow as he moves closer. Taurus’s tattoo is not just a mark on his skin; it’s a part of him, an emblem of something both wild and intimate that we share.

“What’s in the binder, baby?” His voice is low, the words rolling out like smooth pebbles in a velvet drawl. The tattoo turns its head towards me, as if curious about my answer, and I smile, finding myself drawn into the comforting orbit of his aura.

The pages of the binder flutter under my fingertips as I flip through the catalog of memories and materials, each costume a story in itself.

“I’m looking for clothes for the party,” I say, my voice trailing off.

The enormity of my collection is a reminder of past revelries, a treasure trove hidden away and seldom acknowledged for its vastness.

As Taurus prowls closer, a living embodiment of strength and assurance, my focus falters. The book, once an escape, now pales compared to the allure of his approach. His presence is magnetic, pulling my attention away from the task at hand.

“Party’s still on? Good for him.” His voice ripples through the room, a low rumble that seems to vibrate along my skin.

As he speaks, his scent, wild and familiar, envelops me, filling the space between us with an intoxicating warmth.

He climbs up on the bed, his movements deliberate and fluid—a predator in his element, graceful even in the confines of our shared sanctuary.

I nod, the motion an involuntary response to his question rather than a conscious decision.

My tongue darts out, tracing the curve of my lips in anticipation, as if preparing for some wordless conversation we’re about to engage in.

The binder, thick with the weight of fabric and fantasy, slips from my grasp like it’s been waiting for permission to abandon its post. It thuds against the carpeted floor, pages splayed open to endless possibilities now ignored.

He grins wickedly, the expression dancing across his features as if he’s privy to an inside joke only he understands.

But I’m quickly learning the punchline is shared between us, unspoken yet mutually comprehended.

This man, Taurus, with his predatory grace and tattoo that seems alive under the play of light, doesn’t need words to articulate his intentions .

Okay, this kind of distraction I can deal with.

The chaos of earlier, the tug-of-war with Sari, all of it fades into the background. Right here, right now, there’s no guilt, no quests, no resentment—just the two of us, and the promise of what’s to come.