Free Blood Awakening by Jamie Manning Page B

now.
    “He told me what happened,” he responded, his voice soft. His eyes dropped again.
    “You don’t remember?” I asked, surprised.
    “Not really. Just bits and pieces.”
    Boy, did I know what that feeling was like. “So what do you remember?”
    He looked at me again. “I remember you saying you love me.” That’s what I had been fishing for, had been praying he would say. The pain and torture he suffered at the hands of Sebastian and his evil mongers, the loss of the life he once knew because of what I had done, those things could have been washed away forever. It would have been too much had he lost the memory of my words; I was overjoyed he hadn’t.
    “It’s true,” I said, mimicking the soft tone of his voice. “I love you, Chance.” I expected—hoped—he would smile and say it back, and tell me that he would always love me.
    “I’m sorry, Ava,” he answered, not at all what I was yearning for. “But I can’t do this right now.”
    “I know.” I was crushed, completely. “I’m so sorry.”
    “Stop apologizing. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He finally looked at me again, his eyes filled with pieces of the old him melded with the new. “I just can’t deal with everything going on inside me. It’s all too much.” A short pause, then, “I just have some stuff to deal with right now. I need some space.” I had anticipated that, anticipated him saying he didn’t want me around; it didn’t make it any easier to hear.
    “I get it,” I said, forcing the tears away. “But I wanna help you get through this. I wanna be here for you.”
    “I don’t think you can help me. Nobody can.” He began that awkward, uncomfortable shifting of his weight again. “I…I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry for…everything.” He stepped around me and headed toward his truck. Part of me wanted to let him go, let him deal with things in his own way. The other part—the stronger part—said to hell with that, and bounded after him.
    “Chance,” I said, once I caught up to him. “Please.” He stopped walking and turned around. “Let me help you. Tell me what I can do.”
    “Can you bring my mom back?” It was like a slap in the face, and it hurt.
    His mom.
    Of course she would be top priority. His mom was murdered (again, because of me) and now it was killing him. Here I had been thinking only of myself for the past month, and whether or not I was on his mind half as often as he was on mine. Not once did I even consider what losing his mother must have been doing to him. I was awful.
    “I wish I could.” The lamest answer, but it was all I had.
    “Told you you couldn’t help me.” He turned and walked away again, and again I followed. He tossed his backpack into the open window of his truck before opening the door and climbing inside.
    “Maybe I can,” I said, placing my hands on the door between us. I wanted desperately to climb into the truck with him and pretend that none of the past month had ever happened, that he was still human and we were in love as we should have been, and our real life was about to begin.
    “How?”
    I stared deep into the now-altered jade of his eyes. “I can help you say goodbye to her.” This time, it was Chance who looked as though he had been slapped in the face. He stared out the windshield of his truck, clenching and unclenching his jaw. I could feel the tension and anger and sadness emanating from him, even if it was no longer a physical effect. “I can take you to see her. Her grave, I mean. If you want me to.” I must admit that it was a bit morbid discussing his mom in such a cavalier way, and I resisted the urge to shudder away the creepiness digging into my shoulders, refusing to let Chance see my pain when he had so much of his own.
    It felt like an eternity before he finally spoke. “Okay.” His face looked worn, ragged. Saying okay meant that he had to accept his mother’s death—something I knew he would never do. “But not