Page 67 of Scars of the Sun

The Leader’s transparent brow quirked, and when the two of them looked at me, it felt like being held under two sets of laser beams. Dahlia at least looked excited to see me, even if she must’ve heard me brawling with her father. “Daddy, look,” she pointed at my neck, “he’s got a drawing of my flower.” Her speech was high pitched, the words running together, but I was able to follow what she was saying without strain.

Ramona’s brother gave the tattoos on my neck and arms a cursory glance. “I see that, darlin’.”

“Are you done fighting?”

I couldn’t tell whether it was innocent naiveté that left her unshaken by what’d occurred between me and her parents not five minutes earlier, or if she’d already grown accustomed to shifters and witches going at it.

Instead of responding, I looked to the Leader to answer her question. It took him a moment, a few of them, actually, but he drew some sort of conclusion and gave a soft nod to his daughterand then a tighter one to me. “Wait out here. If she wants to talk to you, she will.”

The door closed behind them with a decided click. The lack of a lock turning felt like extra salt in the wound that was still throbbing on my face, and I stood for a few moments before I slumped into the rocker behind me. My Jaguar wanted to rip the fucking door off its hinges and cut down everyone that kept me from my mate, but I breathed through the urge.

There was no way I was leaving without speaking to Ramona, even if I felt nauseous for essentially showing my belly to people I didn’t give a shit about.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

RAMONA

Iwas so mad, so past the point of screaming that heavy teardrops fell down my cheeks, testament to my shortcomings. For succumbing to the depression or not finishing the job, I couldn’t tell.

“Ramona, please look at me,” Sylvie’s voice was gentle, like a healing embrace, but I didn’t want it. Didn’t deserve it. They already had so much going on, and it wasn’t like them knowing would change anything. I was still alive, and as upset as I was… I couldn’t do it.

I dragged my eyes upward, meeting Sylvie’s dark ones, the color of the soil I’d grown so used to working, and knew that I wanted to live. That this hurt so much because there was no way out but through. Not anymore.

Her arms dragged me into her chest, holding steady against my resistance until I went limp, sobbing. Snot running, throat-cracking sobs that made my ribs hurt.

And, as if she knew what I needed, she refrained from using her powers to calm me. It would’ve completely stopped my outburst. But instead, she let me stay raw and bleeding until there was nothing left coming out of my eyes. My body shivered and shook, but there was no other noise left to give.

She pulled back first, and I accepted her light touch on my face, smoothing my tears before trailing down to my arms. I was just so tired, I couldn’t even muster a flinch when she trailed her thumbs up and down the puckered skin. They were tipped in razor-sharp, cherry red nails, but so, so gentle that they coaxed a sigh out of me.

When I drummed up the courage to meet her stare again, I found it already on my face. And her smile was cooling and warm and bright all at the same time. My lower lip wobbled, but my eyes remained dry.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Ramona.” Sylvie’s voice was quenching sunshine, and I pulled my legs closer into myself, feeling her words soaking in. “And I’m so happy to call you my sister.”

I gasped. She’d never said these sorts of things to me, but I’d never been receptive to them, had I? Through the fuzzy overlay I kept on my mind or the forcefield that was prepared to darken and shoot back tenfold anything sent my way, her assurances never would have felt like this. Like they were almost… true.

“I-I’m… sorry,” I croaked. My voice was already raw from my crying, though. How long she held me in her arms, I had no idea. But what I said was the truth. I was sorry for so many things—bringing more stress to her and my brother, disrupting their calm routine, being prepared to leave them forever.

Most of all, that.

Sylvie kept caressing my scars, like they were unblemished and presentable. She didn’t say it was okay, but she shook her head. “I know that speaking like this is difficult. So I’ll keep it brief. You are so, so loved, Ramona. Especially by me, the babies, and your brother.” Her features twisted up, “And by that Jaguar of yours.”

I surprised myself, letting loose a desperate chuckle. “Yeah. Maybe.”

She dragged a light touch down the very center of both of my scars, unafraid of what they meant. “Oh, I don’t know. Your brother and I knew from the very beginning. But regardless,” she added pressure, gently emphasizing, “you are at home here. You belong here. And whether you stay living with us or not, you are one of us. Always. I hope you know that.”

My brow crinkled, trying so hard not to immediately write off what she was saying to me. Did I feel like I belonged? The cabin at once felt like my home and not. The room I stayed in would eventually go back to being Ollie’s, where he would grow up instead of being sequestered into his little play pen in the corner while Sylvie comforted me. He played there, now, entertaining himself and happy to have his mother within sight.

But the gardens, the kitchen here where I helped my brother, even his work shed, all felt like a piece of me. And when I spent time with each of them, Sylvie as we talked and joked, my brother as we worked in connected silence, and my niece and nephew as we played, there was no need to hide.

I nodded, slowly. “I… know that. Now.”

Sylvie slid her hands down to mine, lacing our fingers together and squeezing. I squeezed back. “Good. And…” she hedged, but I kept still, kept squeezing, “If you’d like to talk about this, you have me, and I know that—” I felt the tremble in her touch until she steeled herself “—that your brother has some experience in feeling the way you have. And if you want someone impartial, we’ll help you find them, too.”

I sucked my lip into my mouth, pulling at it with my teeth. O had been stressed lately, and reasonably so, but I’d no idea that… that he’d been as depressed as Sylvie was alluding to. “Guess it runs in the family,” I tried at humor, but it was hollow.

She took it in stride anyway. A little tinkling laugh that also held a related twinge of sadness, “Maybe so. He had to figureout how to lean on us, too. Me. Chris. Juno, even with them and Josie still away helping their family.You.”

“Me?”