Dreamfever (Fever #4)

by Karen Marie Moning

“I don’t give a rat’s petunia about pink cakes!” I shout. I want him to look at my body. I am confused. I am afraid. “I don’t even know what a rat’s petunia is!” “Your mother didn’t like you and your sister to cuss. ‘Petunia’ is the word you say instead of saying ‘ass,’ Mac.” “I do not know that word, ‘sister,’ either!” I lie. I hate the word. “Oh, yes, you do. She was your world. She was killed. And she needs you to fight for her. She needs you to come back. Come back and fight, Mac. Bloody hell, fight! If you’d just fight like you fuck, you’d’ve walked out of this room the day I carried you in!” “I do not want to walk out of this room! I like this room!” I will show him fight. I launch myself at him, a volley of fists and teeth and nails. I am ineffectual. He is as obdurate as a mountain. He prevents me from damaging him or myself. We stumble and fall to the floor. Abruptly I am no longer angry. I sprawl on top of him. I hurt inside my chest. I kick off my shoes. I drop my head in the hollow where his shoulder meets his neck. We are still. His arms are around me, strong, certain, safe. “I miss her,” I say. “I do not know how to live without her. There is a