Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 85616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Maybe none of that was what happened, though. Maybe I had felt it and just wasn’t aware. Maybe I wasn’t as in tune with my own soul. “What was it that you felt? When you knew?” I asked him. If the stories weren’t reliable then I’d get a firsthand report right here, from the man who lit up my world with his smile, who could melt me to a puddle with his kiss. The man I’d been trying so hard to ice out, only to have him consistently break through.
Was that not the definition of a fated bond?
“It happened when we first met. In the woods. During the rain. I picked up your scent and followed it. My body went into autopilot. I didn’t know what it was, I just knew I would run for miles to chase your scent down. Then, when I got closer, and your scent grew stronger, I remember feeling this sense of… I don’t know, rightness. This feeling like everything was going to be all right. I remember breaking through the trees and seeing you in the clearing and it was like my world flipped upside down.” He looked away from me, his jaw flexing, head shaking. “Then when we shifted, when I had fallen in your arms, time stopped. The second you touched my skin, my entire body felt like it’d been replaced with sunlight. It sounds crazy, but I felt warm all over, in a way I don’t think I ever have before. Inside and out. It was wild.”
And it was just like the stories said.
Although I had also felt a spark upon first meeting Dylan on that rainy day, I couldn’t lie and say I had felt such a visceral reaction. Maybe I’d been too in my head? A little too self-conscious to open myself up to him like that? He was incredibly attractive and I sometimes closed myself off to men I thought were leagues and above my own.
I grasped at straws. There had to be a reason for this discrepancy. I just couldn’t figure out what it was.
And, at the end of the day, did it truly matter? Did I need to experience the same exact physical sensations Dylan had to know that we were meant to be?
“You know,” I said, starting to speak what was on my heart, what I’d been wanting to open up about for a while now. “I think that my mom and dad were fated mates. Neither of them were shifters but from the way my dad speaks about her, I think that they truly were meant to be, and that when they were together it was them against the world. Two people who created warm memories and built a beautiful life in a sometimes chaotic and cruel world. My dad couldn’t have felt what you’re describing, but I know that he thought my mom was everything and more. That they were soulmates.”
Dylan must have sensed the sorrow in my voice. I tried to hide it, my emotional scars weren’t part of the point I was trying to make, but it didn’t matter. Dyl reached for my hand. “What happened?”
It was my turn to stay silent. I composed my thoughts into a semi-coherent message, picking up the words and sentences through a raging river of pain and guilt.
“She died giving birth to me.” The words went through me like bullets from a machine gun, each one shredding open a new wound. I rarely spoke those words aloud. Only ever to my closest friend and to the different therapists I’d seen throughout my life. Even with twenty-nine years separating me from the tragedy, the words still hurt, the reality continuing to stab me in the heart.
“Oh, Miles…” His hands squeezed mine. He didn’t stop there. He reached over and put his arm around my shoulders and hugged me. It was tender and soft and helped ease a tiny bit of the immense constant weight on my shoulders. “That breaks my heart. I’m so sorry,” he said, his head resting against mine.
His touch, the warmth of his comfort, it unlocked a part of me I thought was permanently shuttered. I could feel my cheeks get wet before I even realized I had started to cry. I sniffed, trying to contain myself, trying to stuff that pain back into the box I’d been keeping it in. Boys don’t cry. It was silly of me to cry for something I should have dealt with already. This was a sign of weakness. A reason why I should have never said anything at all.
It was my fault. Her death was my fault. If she never had me, she’d still be here. My dad would still have his fated mate. He’d be happy with her, he’d be so happy. So happy.
The toxic thoughts flowed through my blood like venom injected by the fangs of a deadly cobra. I knew they were wrong. I’d been fighting them all my life. I was tired of fighting. Tired of feeling.