Page 144 of The Rut in the Road

I didn’t know whatjaanumeant. I probably didn’t want to know.

Nausea surged in the back of my throat, and I pushed myself away sharply, twisting out of Raj’s arms before throwing up in the grass.

“Rayn. Rayn…” Hands took my shoulders, pulled me back, although I fought to stay hunched over and away from him, choking on a mixture of sobs and vomit. “Mera ravi, please, come back in the house.”

The pressure from his hands was insistent, but not unkind.

I resisted. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let him convince me to go back in, because if he did, I’d let him coddle me again. I’d let guilt make me accept being protected and pitied because I felt terrible about what I could have done. And if I got angry again—if he coddled me too much—I might use magic on him again. And if I was angry enough— I shuddered. “Let me go.”

He did.

I stumbled to the car, scrubbed the tears out of my eyes, and drove away, nausea still hot in my gut. I didn’t look back.

I was curledup in my beanbag when I heard the knock on the door, my tablet in my lap, although I hadn’t been paying attention to the show I’d put on. I barely had any sense of what it even was.

I ignored the knock.

“Hey, kid,” I heard Hart say, loudly. “You don’t have to let me in, but at least get over here and listen, okay?”

I really didn’t want him to be yelling in the hallway, so I dragged myself out of the beanbag and opened the door.

I didn’t bother saying anything, but Hart took it as an invitation to come inside. He closed the door behind him, but stayed standing as I sank back into my beanbag, the action of walking across the room and back having drained me of energy.

“Okay, here’s the fucking deal,” the elf said, shifting his weight back and forth. “I know he was almost certainly being an overbearing shit, but you can’t just leave it like this.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

Hart sighed. “He’s miserable,” he said softly. “Looks like he hasn’t slept in two days. Probably hasn’t, honestly, because I’m pretty sure he’s in the same fucking shirt he had on on Tuesday.” It was either late Thursday night or possibly early Friday morning. I wasn’t sure. “I haven’t seen him eat, either, come to think of it, and I know he’s gonna need to do that at some point, because a shifter’s metabolism gets real fucked up if they go too long without enough food.”

He was right. I felt tears slip from my eyes, but I didn’t move. And I didn’t say anything.

“Tell me he was a complete and utter jackass and deserves this,” Hart said.

“N-no,” I managed. Overbearing, yes. But he hadn’t deserved what I’d done to him.

“Then whatever the fuck happened, if it isn’t his fault, or only partly his fault, or, fuck, even if itiscompletely and entirely his fault, if you don’t think he deserves to be punishing himself, then get him to cut it the fuck out.” He paused, cleared his throat. “We’ve been trying,” he said softly. “Brought him food. Water. Coffee. He’ll drink, but I couldn’t even get him to throw the box of Frosted Flakes at me, much less eat them.”

Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t say anything, emotion too tight in my throat.

“Please, kid. At least text him.”

I stayed in my beanbag, guilt roiling in my intestines.

“You know he loves you,” Hart said then.

“No, he doesn’t.” You can’t love someone if you treat them like a pet.

Another sigh. “Yeah, he fucking does,” he argued. “You think this is what happens when youdon’tlove someone?” he barked out a laugh that was more bitterness than mirth. A lot more. “Trust me, kid, been there, eaten that shit. If you care about him, please, for the love of all that is holy or unholy or whatever the fuck you believe in, put him out of his fucking misery. Tell him it’s over or tell him what to do to win you back or whatever the fuck it is you want, but don’t leave him like this.”

“I—I can’t,” I told him.

“Why the fuck not?”

I hadn’t expected Hart to argue with me. “Because I’m…” I didn’t know how to explain. Not really. “I’m a killer.”

“Fuck, kid, so am I. So’s he. You think you get to be a federal fucking field agent without firing a gun? That shithead’s killed with hispaws. More than once. Does he like doing it? Fuck, no. But he’s done it before and will do it again when he has to.”

I heard footsteps as he came over, then the creak of joints as he squatted beside my beanbag.