Page 103 of Unveil

Guilt.

No matter how Benoit died, even with the Wildes the clear enemy, Luna will wear the blame like an anvil on her back. I’ll hold her through it until she forgives herself. Maybe one day, she’ll help me do the same.

Rocking her slowly, I massage her scalp and whisper fiercely against her temple, saying all the things I wish had been said to me.

“It’s okay.”

“I’ve got you.”

“You’re safe now.”

“It’s not your fault.”

I repeat them, wondering if the words even register, hoping she internalizes them somehow if they don’t.

Eventually, her sorrow releases its chokehold, letting her breaths even, and she goes fully limp in my arms. When sleep finally claims her, I hold her impossibly tighter and make the same vow I have every night so far.

“I love you, wife.” I kiss her forehead, pouring everything I am into her. “I love you, and I’m never letting you go.”

Luna is killing me.

Those watery, clear blue eyes have been fixed in a hollow stare since we got back to the cabin, the sight of Benoit’s body no doubt bringing back fresh hurt and guilt. I know that feeling. Seeing the burnt graveyard was a sucker punch to the chest, and it’s been six years since I confronted my mom’s death, not little more than six hours.

Luna collapsed at her friend’s side as soon as we walked up, her tutu fanning around her like broken wings as she tucked her legs beneath her and pulled him into her lap. She’s still wearing my jacket and the crudely fixed bodice laced together with ripped tulle. The blood from Benoit’s gunshot wounds has dried, rust-colored flakes crusting the holes in his shirt and speckling her fair skin. But she wouldn’t have cared if she’d been soaked through.

Benoit looks worse now, despite the rosy glow of early morning creeping in through the cabin slats. His skin is pale and waxy, slick with October dew, lips an unnatural bluish-gray. The only saving grace is that his eyes are closed. You don’t come backthe same after looking into dead eyes. That image never stops haunting you. Luna’s silent, catatonic, and cradling him like they might open at any moment.

I’d do anything to take away her pain, but all I can give her is a few minutes to mourn in peace. So I check the traps that ended up being useless, confirm we’re alone, then hide bodies in the brush so Luna doesn’t have to see them. When I return to the cabin, she’s in the same position, a portrait of grief frozen in time.

I crouch beside her and rub small circles on her back. She leans into me enough that I feel the quake of her sobs as she lets them free. I press a kiss to her crown, reveling in the trust she has in me, trust I don’t deserve, and hating myself for ruining it with what I have to say next.

“I need to check him, little bird.”

She recoils, hissing and wrapping around him like a swan guarding her cygnets. “No.”

Exactly the reaction I predicted. My girl’s fiercely protective over the people she loves, one of the many reasons I fell for her. But that devotion is also how I know she can’t handle watching me search her dead friend’s pockets for anything useful.

Out here, we can’t count on anything but surprises. Everything is used and nothing is wasted. A practical, sometimes harsh rule of the woods I would’ve hoped to teach her in much better circumstances. But it’s a lesson that might keep us alive, especially with Luna still hurt and the possibility of the Wildes hiding anywhere in the Lost Cove trees.

I don’t say that, though. Her emotions are an exposed nerve right now, and I’m afraid one wrong word will set her off into a devastated spiral. So I rub my thumb at the nape of her neck and offer a truth she can digest.

“I have to make sure there’s nothing on him that can hurt you.”

Her eyes narrow. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. But I won’t take chances with you.” I tip my chin toward the door. “Go, please. I promise I’ll be quick, but you won’t want to see this.”

Her eyes well up as she holds him tighter. “You won’t hurt him.”

Way to break my damn heart.

I shake my head. “I promise. I’ll treat him like my own.”

She waits a beat, then nods slowly and passes him to me, holding his head like a baby’s. I take him just as gently and watch as she limps to the porch with barely a grunt of pain. She doesn’t go far, stopping at the railing. Her fingers dig into the wood as she stares out across the lake where the mist lifts in the sun’s meager rays. Her back is straight, jaw clenched. The soft wind wafts through her hair and ripples her skirt like water, and she visibly shudders, as if from a cold chill like a ghost passing by.

The guilt weighing on my chest makes it hard to breathe.

My strong little bird is wrecked. Black, blue, and purple marks paint her fair skin, some I’m proud of, like my claiming bite and the fingerprints mapping my touch. Others make me murderous.