A Handful of Daffodils (Forgotten Series, #7)

Chapter Seventy

Two weeks later

It had been two weeks, two very long weeks, since everything had fallen apart and I had been left in the ruins I had created in my life. I had stayed in my house, not leaving, wandering the space that felt like nothing more than a stranger's residence as I healed from my well deserved punishment. They still twinged, still pulled, still ached, but they were nearly completely healed. I hadn't liked that. I had wanted them to remain open and seething with pain. I wanted those white hot streaks of pain to continue to hammer my consciousness to remind me of what I had done, to remind me of how horrible I had been.

Except they had healed, the ache was a dull one, not nearly as intense as I believed it should have been. I knew I had to live with it but I hadn't wanted to. I had wanted the continual reminder of how much of a horrible failure I was. The pain had been the best reminder but I had also taken to carefully going through each thing in that box and memorizing it. Each time I handled anything I pulled from the box my chest tightened and my stomach churned. There was so much pain inside of it, as if Menza and Maeve's trial of survival had sunk into the very fabric of the clothing and the items inside.

I lingered in that pain, memorizing the scent and feel of it, embedding it into my psyche so deep that I would never be without it. I knew every rip, tear, and stain on all the bits of clothing inside that box. Like the tiny little holes in the dirty onesie that made me think of thorns grabbing the fabric and tugging it out of place and the large ones like the rust coloured stain on Menza's torn shirt. She had bled so much.

It took a bit of time to dilute the blood enough to not be noticeable.

Getts' words echoed inside my head as I turned the shirt over in my hands. She must have been so scared. That was all I could think about. I knew Menza was a timid female, loud noises made her jump and new people made it nearly impossible for her to speak. But she had marched on, fought for not just her survival but Maeve's as well, and she had won. She had been sick and injured but she succeeded in keeping herself and Maeve alive.

And you let her be punished for it.

The hissing words inside my head brought a heavy and hot lick of pain and shame tinged regret that I revelled in. I deserved the spiteful words, I deserved the pain and the regret and the shame. I deserved it all because it was all my fault. My fingers shook slightly as I rubbed the stiff fabric between my fingertips. I deserved the vitriol I felt aimed at me from some of the pack. I deserved the judgment that I felt radiating out of the Hunters who were still on the territory. I deserved it all and so much more.

I swallowed hard as I gently set the shirt off to the side and pulled out the soft grey robe. I had been confused as to what it meant at first and why it had been included until I had found the small letter addressed to Menza. It was from the head Priestess in Altia. It told Menza that the box was filled with regret but it wasn't hers. I knew it was mine and I took that burden without a sound. But she had also explained about the ritual Menza had done, the one that gave her kinship to other shifters.

I had been confused at first and had asked a Hunter for clarification and the male had rattled off what he knew about it and even though it terrified me that Menza had been brought to death's door to complete it, it helped me understand her more. It helped me see that the sudden shift in the pack and the males had little to do with me and what I felt and little to do with the old adage of you always want what you can't have. Menza was more shifter than mundane, the ritual made sure of it. So all the people who had viewed her with disdain because she was prey, had shifted into the realization she was kin, shifter. So the males had gone after her because she was suddenly more than she had been and that meant she was something to covet.