Page 76 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

“They’re just dreams, Lyra.” He rolls his eyes, once again denying how little he sleeps because of the night terrors that plague his dreams.

Turning my body, I place my arms on the edge of the tub and rest my chin along them, watching as he walks further into the bathroom, scooping the book from the seat and flipping through the pages.

“Will you tell me about them?”

“My dreams?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

I sigh, rolling my eyes. He can be so difficult sometimes. Everything in his mind has some twisted ulterior motive. As if the idea of someone just wanting to be kind isn’t plausible.

“Because I care about you, Thatcher.” I let my head fall to the side of my arm, leaning against the edge of the tub. “I want to know these things about you. I want to know about your dreams. Why you left yesterday morning like someone had set you on fire and came back drenched in sweat. I know this is hard for you to understand, but you don’t have to deal with everything alone anymore.”

He thumbs through the pages of The Picture of Dorian Gray, the tattered copy cracked at the spine and pages tinted. I let him sit in his silence, allowing him to choose how he wants to respond.

If he doesn’t want to tell me yet, I’ll understand. I won’t push him to give me more than he’s ready to give. You can’t demand a lion turn into a zebra. I can’t demand a boy who knows nothing of love to navigate a relationship flawlessly as a man.

When he remains silent, I reach my hand out, tracing my mother’s ring on his pinkie finger with gentle strokes.

“I’m going to see my father.”

The admission makes my head rear back, and I flinch at how those words attack my defenses. The water swishes around me at the sudden movement.

“What?” I choke on the words as they fall out. “Why?”

I hadn’t been expecting that. I’d thought he would say something about his dreams. Not this.

How long had it been since Thatcher had laid eyes on his father? Spoken to him? Replied to a letter he’d sent? The very last image he had of the man was being shoved into the back of a police car.

“Not by choice,” he corrects pointedly, as if that is going to reassure me. “I went to May’s grave yesterday morning. I realized something there—Henry knows who the Imitator is. If I had to guess, he involved himself just to get close to me again. Regardless, he might be our only option in ending this entire thing.”

My heart sinks to my feet.

Fear rushes through me, and my fight or flight seems to kick in.

I won’t let him do this.

He can’t do this.

“Okay.” I nod. “So send Alistair or Rook.”

“The only person he will talk to is me.” He turns so that he’s completely facing me in the bath. “He did this to get my attention; sending them would be pointless. I know my father.”

Panic rises into my throat, the sudden urge to vomit or scream hitting me like a barreling wave. Tears sting the corners of my eyes as I recall the look in Henry’s eyes the night he killed my mother.

How brutal they looked. Cold, unforgiving, they weren’t even human. Thatcher’s had never, ever looked like that. Not once. They’ve been harsh, sharp, cold even, but nothing compared to the raw lack of empathy that night.

“I’ll go, then.”

Thatcher’s eyes turn into slits, his jaw tightening, the muscle in his cheek twitching. His voice is so dark it makes a chill echo across my skin. “Over my dead body.”

The water around me is steaming, but I feel so very cold. Tears slip from my eyes, the back of my throat constricting. I have so much I want to say, yet the only thing that comes out is “You can’t go.”

Seeing the distress on my face, he leans forward, eyebrows pinched together as he loops his pointer finger around a loose curl, tugging on it softly.

“He’s not going to kill me,” he assures me. “You’re giving him far too much credit, darling phantom. I’ll be fine.”