Page 62 of Inextricably Tied

Now she laughs. “Of course it is! We’re both a part of this, aren’t we? I haven’t been fucking myself for the last four months.”

He averts his eyes while her mind flips back through their encounters. Her tugging on his belt, her undoing both their buttons, her…

It dawns on her in a flare of embarrassment. “But I always initiate it.” Breath scrapes out of her. “Do you not want to do this?”

“No! No, that’s not what I’m saying. I —” But he cuts himself off, as he always does. “I want whatever you want, Harbin. Whatever you need. I can do that for you.”

And there it is: that valiant propriety, the chivalry that fell on its sword. It rolls in her stomach, remorse bubbling in the face of all his noble sacrifice.

“That’s not…I don’t want to use you. I don’t want this to be about me.” Her hands run down her face before she turns back to him. “You’re always so fucking worried about me, wondering if I’m in the barest hint of danger. If you’re putting the slightest pressure on me. What about what you want?” She throws out her hands. “Ask for it! Take it!”

There’s fire in Flint’s eyes, like he might do it. Reach across the space and tell her what she knows he’s hiding. But then he shakes his head, voice heavy from the weight of all he refuses to spill. “I can’t do that to you.”

“I want you to!” She closes the space, gripping his sleeves, searching his face for a hint of what he’s feeling. “I know you’re doing your job —”

“This is not just my job.”

“— but you don’t have to safeguard me from your emotions. You’re allowed to feel things. You’re allowed to want things. It doesn’t always have to be good; it doesn’t have to be selfless. I’m not precious. I’m not breakable.”

Flint’s fingers close over her arms until they’re engulfed completely in his hands. “But you are…so fucking breakable, Harbin.” Emotions swell past the wall he has around them, squeezing through the cracks with anxiety and fear. “I don’t know why you don’t realize it. I don’t think you want to. But sometimes, the things you do…it’s like you want to get hurt. Like you want to lean as far over the edge as you can, and then push a little further. Like you want to…”

He doesn’t finish, but they both hear the word drop between them, lead that echoes.

Die.

Flint hesitates. “Is that what you want?”

The word buzzes through her brain, rattling her thoughts. She can’t look at him. “I need a minute.” Her boots thunder down the stairs, not slowing until the sound of him calling her fades in the distance.

Of course it’s not what she wants. It’s ridiculous. But each step she takes is a fight against fear. Has it been seeping through her body without her realizing? Has she been hurtling toward an end without looking where the signs pointed? Has the thing she swore she hates had its claws in her all this time?

It’s not what I want…is it?

She’s afraid of the answer.

It was easier before. Before Harbinger and Flint talked about things outside of where they were stopping for dinner. Before she caught him staring at her bare face for a fraction too long. Before she knew the comfort of his arms closing around her, the low rumble in his chest as he assured her everything would be fine.

Before Agony crawled into her mind, under her skin, finding pieces of her past that she thought she’d buried. Before his cuffs against her throat got her pulse racing. Before the flicker of his eyes offered some reckless promise, that ledge she wants to step out onto.

Her feet carry her without thought. All these years later, it’s muscle memory, escaping the Convent’s oppressive presence through the caverns to…here. Her eyes slip shut.

“Rough day already?”

Omen’s voice startles her. Right: she’s not wearing her helmet. Easy to forget how comfortable she’s gotten, keeping the visor between her and the rest of the world. Shielding her face, her expressions, her feelings. There’s no barrier now, but there never has been between them.

She averts her eyes. “Need some space.”

“Well, you came to the wrong place.” He elbows Poe’s door open in invitation. Harbinger can’t fight the twitch of her lip as she enters.

He’s right; the banshees have never had enough space between them. Crammed into dormitories, bodies draped over each other, clothes strewn across someone else’s bed. Harbinger learned quickly what touching someone else meant for her, but there were accidents over the years.

Touch is something she’s avoided for so long, but with Poe and Omen, it’s a comfort, a feeling she adjusted to long ago. While others are a thudding reminder inside her, these two glow like embers, candles to guide her way.

“Found a stray,” Omen calls as he pulls a joint from his pocket, flopping down onto the bright orange couch. Poe glances up from her sewing machine, beaming as Harbinger sinks down next to Omen. Her knee knocks against his. He returns the gesture. Harbinger’s head falls back to stare at the ceiling.

“Don’t tell me we’re better company than the bedmates you brought.”

“They’re not…” But Harbinger’s voice trails off under a confusing swirl of emotion. The feelings are all her own, untainted by anyone else’s. In the distance, Flint’s uncertainty muddles with Agony’s probing. Harbinger should feel more from this room. She reaches for her connections with Poe and Omen, but they’re placid as a lake, showing Harbinger her reflection.