52. Deacon

When I finally make it to her, the diner is about to close. Getting away from the packhouse took longer than expected, and playing the dutiful son was exhausting. Giovanni knew I was holding back information, but I didn't care. I didn't do any of this for him; I did it for her.

Rain pours down outside as I pull open the door. I spot her immediately, her back to me as she fills a water glass for the couple sitting there. Her conversation's friendly, and my chest tightens, love surging within me.

Oh, how I've missed that voice.

It's exactly as I remember it. What surprises me most is her hair, which she almost always has braided. Instead, it's in large curls that bounce when she moves. It makes her seem older, more mature.

She lays the check on the table with a smile before turning toward me and freezing in place. For a long moment, we just stare at each other, her not believing I'm here, me drinking in her presence before I slowly step toward her.

"D…" she says, not moving.

My arms wrap around her, and the broken parts of me click back into place. I tuck my nose into the curls she has falling freely over her shoulder, inhaling her coffee and cinnamon scent as her body leans tentatively against my chest. As if she doesn't believe that I'm really here.

"I'm home, Tails. I made it back to you," I whisper as she pulls back to look at me again. Tears fill her eyes, and I see what looks like longing in them.

"I knew you would," she says, pulling back and collecting herself. "Have a seat. I'll make you your favorite, and you can tell me all about your time away," she says, removing herself from my grasp. I immediately feel the cold of her absence; all I want is her back against me.

"I don't need anything but you," I say, grabbing for her hand to pull her back, but she"s already turning and heading to the kitchen, so I slide into my regular seat and wait for her to return.

The last table of customers heads home for the night as she walks back out with my plate: a triple cheeseburger and loaded fries with extra ranch.

"See you next week, Brenda. Bye, Benny," Grace says with a wave, her cheery voice sounding forced.

She sits in front of me and slides into the other side of the booth, finally taking a break now that they are officially closed.

For a moment, I just stare at her, taking in her dark circles and pale skin, analyzing the tension in her shoulders and the weariness of her eyes.

She looks nothing like the girl I left behind eight months ago. That girl had sun-kissed skin and a thousand-watt smile, conviction in her voice, and sass in her attitude. As she sits before me, she looks as broken as I've felt all these months, and a stab of guilt hits me for putting her through this. Her gaze doesn't meet mine as it dances between the food and the table.

"Look at me, Tails," I say, needing her eyes on me so I can drink in every expression. She exhales as if preparing herself and levels them on mine.

"I'm so sorry I left you. Every day, all I wanted was to quit and return home. It took everything in me to stay away. But I made it back. Back to you, to us," I say, needing her to know we can do this, but sadness fills those crystal eyes, and it takes everything to stay on my side of the table. "I can see you aren't okay. Tell me what"s wrong, and I'll fix it. Has Greg been messing with you again? Does your dad need something? You mentioned something about bills?" I rattle off, trying to help, trying to bring back the light that used to fill her eyes.

"You can't. You can't fix it, Deacon. No one can," she says, her voice almost a whisper as she anxiously grabs her apron and wrings it in her hands. Her body slouches, and her eyes drop from mine again.

"Of course I can. There isn't anything you and I can't overcome. It's us against the world, remember Tails? Talk to me, please?" I beg, hating the distance between us, both physically and emotionally.

After a moment, she says, closing her eyes, "I'm eighteen," and I lean forward, barely sure I heard her.

"I know, Tails. Happy birthday. We will figure out the new signing dates, even if we have to come back for it," I say, trying to figure out if I should have said that when I arrived. I didn't miss her birthday. It was the last time I'd talked to her.

She sounded so different then.

Her head shakes back and forth slowly, and pain flashes across her expression.

"No, Deacon. I'm eighteen." Her words are punctuated and slow as if she is trying to give me a clue that I'm not seeing, so I wait. "The Fates, Deacon," she says at last, and it hits me as tears fill her eyes and overflow onto her cheeks without a sound.

We aren't Mates.

A pang hits my heart at that realization before relief floods my system, and I soften my expression.

"Tails, is that what this is about? I don't care about that. It doesn't matter to me who some supernatural force decides I should love. I choose you. We always knew this was a possibility. You don't honestly think this changes anything for me, do you?" I ask, hoping to reassure her, wanting to tip her chin back up so she will look at me.

Why won't she look at me?

Hasn't she missed me all these months? I can't keep my eyes off her, yet she seems to want to avoid looking at me altogether.

"No, I knew it wouldn't change anything for you."

"Then, I don't understand. I know you've always believed in them—hell, they helped me get through the retreat—but they aren't the chess masters of our lives. We get to choose, too. Who knows? Maybe your Mate was one of the wolves that didn't survive the trials, or they live on another continent," I say, trying to ease her worry.

"They weren't," she whispers, confusing me.

"How do you know? They could be." I say, getting frustrated at her inability to move past this.

"No. They can't," she says, her voice louder now, her chin quivering.

"Tails…?"

"I found my Mate," she cries out, and my heart stops beating. My lungs stop taking in air.

No.

"You what?" I say, my voice not my own, as my defenses lock into place. My body leaning back in the seat, pulling away from her.

Her tears fall harder from her eyes, and her expression is pained.

"The Fates… they revealed my Mate."

"When?"

"My birthday," she says, barely getting the words out. Her hands grip the apron with everything she has, her knuckles turning white.

Her birthday.

We spoke on her birthday, and she didn't say anything. I try to remember the conversation, her voice, and the words she said.

Nothing. She didn't say anything about it.

My eyes scan her shoulders, trying to see through the fabric covering them, searching to see if I'm too late. I have to physically bite my cheek to keep from asking the questions I want to ask her because I can't vocalize the words. The answers could break me.

How could you keep this from me? Did you reject him? Have you Mated? Do you still love me? Am I still your future? Are you still mine?

Pain. Overwhelming and debilitating fills every piece of me until I'm suffocating. I can feel myself fighting to breathe, to keep my heart beating, to hold onto the sliver of light that remains.

It's not over.

The thought allows me to grip onto the fragile hope floating inside. I pull my eyes from her, dropping my gaze to the table while I sort through the feelings. She sobs quietly, allowing me to process her words without interrupting, and I would be grateful if I didn't want more words from her.

Say I'm still yours.

Say you choose me too.

Say we aren't over.

But the longer I sit in her silence, I know.

She didn't choose me.

She's choosing the path given to her by The Fates.

I know without her having to say a word. She wouldn't be this broken up about it if she were making any other choice.

I hate that I know how much this decision is hurting her.

I want to not care. I want to not feel.

I calm my beating heart, using the skill I'd practiced over the last four months: turning the emotions off one by one until I feel nothing. My mask falls into place, and I give her no more of me. She gets the wall I give everyone else.

It's the only way I can protect my heart.

"Who?" I ask, my voice void of emotion like I could be asking for cream in my coffee. Just as the words are out of my mouth, the jingle of the cafe door sounds at my back, and her eyes flash to it. The sound of the rain still falling outside enters along with the intruder.

Fear replaces the anguish on her face as her eyes become saucers before she looks back at me, guilt flooding her. I know in that instant the person who just walked in is her Mate.

Kill him.

With pleasure.