Page 1

Samuel

The room is too quiet.

The fire shifts in the hearth, a low settling of embers. The cabin hums faintly around us, old wood and pipes. Wind presses against the windows, and the Christmas tree lights click softly from one color to the next.

I hear all of it because I’m listening for her. For every breath, every small sound, every sign that Raven’s still here with me.

The book’s open in my hand. The words are there, black lines on the page, sentences I know I should be able to follow, but they keep slipping apart before they mean anything. I read anyway because she asked me to. My voice is one of the only things she still seems to settle to, and I honestly don't know what else to do with myself.

The tree glows beside the bed, exactly where I moved it earlier so she could see it without turning her head.

Raven wanted one last Christmas, so I made sure she had it. I dragged the damn thing close enough that the branches almost brush the nightstand. Knox gave me a look like he wanted to say something about fire hazards or space, but he didn't. The hospice nurse tried to lecture me about the tree not being sanitary or safe to have in the room with someone in Raven's condition. I asked her if she planned on carrying the damn thing back out herself. She shut up after that. Knox just rubbed a hand over his mouth and looked away.

Nobody says much anymore. They walk into this room, look at her, look at me, and whatever they planned to say dies before it reaches their lips.

I hate the way everyone already looks like they're grieving.

She's still here.

Her hand rests beneath mine, thin and cool, not cold, but cool enough that I keep my palm over it like I can protect what's left. Her fingers haven't moved in a while.

I keep reading. My voice is low. Steady enough that it almost sounds like me. I don't let it break because if it breaks, she'll know. And if she knows, I'll have to admit I do, too.

The room smells like pine and the faint sweetness of the lotion I rubbed into her arms and legs before I climbed into bed beside her. I did it gently because her skin has gotten so thin and delicate.

Her fingers shift beneath mine, and I stop. One small movement and everything inside me goes still.

I lower the book without looking away from her. "Raven?"

Her head turns on the pillow, slow enough that it hurts to watch. The lights from the tree catch along her face, softening everything, making her look almost unreal in the dim room.

She's too beautiful. Too fragile.

"I'm here," I say, leaning closer. "I've got you."

Raven's eyes find mine, and I know before she says it. I don't want to. I fight it the second it comes—that sick, cold understanding moving through me, but I know.

"Sam," she whispers so quietly I feel it more than hear it.

"I'm here, sweetheart." I bring her hand closer, pressing my mouth to her knuckles. "I'm right here."

"I think…" Her breath catches, and my grip tightens before I can stop it. "I think it's time."

"You're just tired," I say. "That's all this is. You just need to rest."

She looks at me the way she always does when she sees straight through every lie I tell for her sake.

"Sam."

"No." I shake my head. The movement feels wrong, too fast, too desperate. "No, it's not. Don't—don't say that."

My hand closes around hers like I can keep her here by holding on hard enough. It's stupid. I know it is. I've watched every cruel thing this illness has taken from her, and not once has my strength meant a damn thing. Still, my body doesn't understand how to stop fighting.

She curls her fingers against my wrist. Barely. It’s enough.

"Wolf, please," she whispers. Don't make me stay here.”

The words go straight through me.