What worried her was that there might be guilt behind his protective walls, guilt at claiming another female. If he had never met and then tragically lost Torrie, it would be different. She would have only existed in his mind as an abstract person. It was easier to forgive yourself for mating another when you had never known your true mate—or, at least, that was how it was for Harley. But Jesse had known Torrie. She’d been a flesh-and-blood person to him, and her death had wrecked him, left a black mark on his soul. Harley had sensed that mark the second she’d met him and looked into a pair of dead eyes.
It was worth noting that he’d had years to come to terms with his loss. His vacant eyes could sometimes gleam with emotion, though it was rare. And he’d actually found enough life in him to want to claim another female. She’d found enough hope in all of that to accept his claim. But to claim him in return, she needed more. She needed the surety that there could be a mating bond.
There were couples that chose not to imprint on each other, but those relationships never worked because their inner animals would accept nothing more than total commitment on every level. If they didn’t get it, they withdrew from the relationship . . . and their human side then had to do the same. As such, her worries about his emotional ability to imprint on her weren’t insignificant.
He’d said Torrie’s death had shaped him into a different person. Maybe it had. Or maybe he’d become a different person to protect the boy who’d lost his mate. Maybe his hard personality was more like a protective shell that guarded his real self.
Harley knew all about building another personality to protect who you truly were and to escape the pain. People did it all the time. But if a part of him deep inside—no matter how small—couldn’t accept Harley without guilt, imprinting would never happen. Then they’d have to go their separate ways and look at each other’s claiming mark in the mirror every freaking day, and remember the mistake they had made.
Tess was right; Harley needed to talk to him. As gently as possible, she said, “Tell me about Torrie.”
Now it was he who tensed. “Why?”
“You never talk about her. You can, you know. I’m not bitter about her being your true mate.”
He rolled onto his back. “I know. But there’s nothing to say.”
Harley tried not to bristle at his icy dismissal, but it was hard. Her cat really didn’t like it. “What was she like?”
Jaw grinding, Jesse merely said, “I told you. Passive. Timid.”
“Yes, but I find it difficult to believe any person could ever be summed up in two words.”
Jesse turned to face her, pinning her gaze. “If there is ever anything you want I’ll give it to you. No limits. I’ll give you whatever you want. Any question you have I’ll answer. But she’s a subject we won’t touch,” he clipped. “I told you about her once so I could make my point. I made it. You got it. We don’t need to speak of her again.”
Irritation and hurt rushed through Harley and her cat in a powerful wave. “Why is she a subject we won’t touch?” Did he think she’d be bitchy about Torrie? Did he really think that little of her?
His nostrils flared. “She has nothing to do with us.”
“She’s not a memory you need to protect from me. I’d never taint your loss with petty jealousies.”
Jesse slid out of bed and shoved a hand through his hair. “She’s fucking dead, Harley. There’s nothing else to say. You don’t need to know about her.”
“Jesse—”
“No, Harley, drop it.” Jesse watched as Harley slowly uncoiled from the bed to stand upright, making him think of a snake ready to strike. And he knew he’d just messed up big time.
“All right,” Harley drawled, remaining cool and collected. She would not let him see her pain. No fucking way. “You want to drop it?” She shrugged nonchalantly. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
Something about her tone made his hackles rise. “Harley.”
“I’m gonna take a shower.” Grabbing her robe, she pushed past him and shut herself in the bathroom.
Jesse flinched at the snick of the lock. She hadn’t even slammed the door to make a statement, and that worried him more than if she’d yelled at him. This wasn’t a tantrum. This wasn’t rage. He’d hurt her.
Pressing his forehead and fist against the bathroom door, he closed his eyes. “Harley . . .” But he had no idea what to fucking say. No idea what to do. His wolf began to pace, anxious. Shit, he needed some air.
Standing under the hot spray of the shower, Harley swallowed past the lump of emotion in her throat. She refused to let it escape. Refused to shed the tears welling up in her eyes. She’d expected him to find it hard to speak of Torrie, even expected him to be reluctant to do so, but she hadn’t expected the harsh dismissal.
She’s a subject we won’t touch.
It wasn’t even so much what he’d said as the way he’d said it. Like she wasn’t privy to his memories of Torrie. Like she had no right to ask him to share them. His eyes, his tone, his expression—all of it had been so cold.
Hey, Harley respected that people carried wounds, and she respected their right to withhold their pain. And if Jesse hadn’t insisted on claiming her, and if so much wasn’t riding on his ability to fully open up, she wouldn’t be so cut up about it. But how could he demand that she claim him, that she give him everything she had to give, and then keep a part of himself separate?