“You agreed!” I tell him. “Your exact words were ‘I can totally live with that’!”
“I can live with it,” he tells me with a shrug. “You’re the one who seems to be freaking out here.” “Because you said—” I break off as his eyes narrow, become predatory. “What?” he goads. “What did I say?” “You know exactly what you said!” I snap at him. “And it’s not fair—” “Fair?” he shoots back, the British coming on thick. “I was half asleep. No, I take that back. I was three-quarters asleep. I can’t be held responsible for what I say when I’m barely conscious.” “It’s not that you said it!” I’m almost yelling now, but panic is a wild animal within me. It’s clawing at my throat, making my head spin and my lungs close up. “It’s that you feel it.” “Excuse me?” he snaps, his eyes going Pacific-during-a-thunderstorm dark. “You don’t get to tell me how I feel.” I’ve never heard him sound more insulted, but that just pisses me off more. “Yeah, well, you don’t get to tell me how I feel, either.” Now he’s the one looking at me like I’ve got issues. Which, not going to lie, I totally do. “I have never tried to tell you how you feel.” His voice cuts like broken glass. “Last night, you told me it was the mating bond on your side, and I told you I was okay with that.” “On my side? Now it’s suddenly that mating bond heat is only on my side?” For a second, I think Hudson might actually explode, just spontaneously combust right where he’s half sitting up now. But then he takes a deep breath and lets it out in slow, ragged increments. Then he takes another one and another one before he finally looks at me again and asks, “Can we please just talk for a second without throwing accusations at each other?” I have to admit, I appreciate the way he said that—especially as I’m the one who’s been throwing all the accusations this morning. But that means it’s my turn to take a few deep breaths before saying, “You told me that you love me and it freaks me out. A lot.” “I’m sorry,” he says, his shoulders slumping forward. “I didn’t mean to say it. I wouldn’t have said it if I had even half my wits about me.” “So it’s not true?” I ask, and there’s a sinking feeling in my stomach that makes absolutely no sense. “You don’t love me.” He shakes his head, his jaw and throat working as he looks anywhere but at me. “What do you want me to say, Grace?” “I want you to tell me the truth. Is that so much to ask?” “I love you,” he says with no flourish, no fanfare. Just three stark words that change everything, whether we want them to or not. I shake my head, scramble to the corner of the bed. “You don’t mean that.” “You don’t get to tell me what I mean,” he answers. “Any more than you get to tell me how I feel. I love you, Grace Foster. I’ve loved you for months, and I’ll love you forever. There’s nothing you can do about that fact.” He reaches for me then, pulls me across the bed, and settles me on top of him. “But I’m not trying to use my feelings as a weapon, either. Did I plan on telling you? No. Am I sorry you know?” He shakes his head. “No. Do I expect you to tell me that you love me back?” “Hudson—” I can’t help the high, panicked note in my voice. “No,” he says. “I don’t. And I don’t mean to make you feel pressured to tell me anything you don’t want to.” Tears clog up my throat, burn behind my eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you.” “That’s not on you.” He lifts a hand to my face, strokes a tender finger down my cheek. “You’re responsible for your feelings, and I’m responsible for mine. That’s how this works.” Somehow, hearing him say it like that hurts worse than anything. Because I do have feelings for him, whether I want to or not. Big feelings, huge feelings that scare me so much that I can barely breathe. Barely think. I loved my parents and they were murdered. I loved Jaxon and he was ripped away from me. If I love Hudson—if I let myself love Hudson—what’s going to happen to me if I lose him? What’s going to happen to me if this new world I find myself in won’t let me have him? I can’t do that. I can’t go through that again. I just can’t. The panic gets worse, my throat clogging up to the point that I can’t breathe. I claw at it, try to force some oxygen in, but Hudson clasps my hands. Holds them tight, even when I try to pull away so I can claw at myself some more. “It’s okay, Grace,” he says calmly, his voice warm and reassuring and right, so right. “Let’s breathe in.” I shake my head. I can’t. “Yes, you can.” He answers the protest I didn’t even say out loud. “Come on, in with me. One, two, three, four, five. Hold it. Good. Now out. One, two, three…” He does this several times with me, and when the panic attack passes, when I can breathe and think again, I know two things. One, I feel more for Hudson Vega than I ever imagined I would. And two, I can never, ever tell him. 88