Devil's Desire [h.s.]

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

HARRY'S P.O.V.

After my conversation with Riv, I slept for almost three straight days. Her and I both did. Tangled up in one another, limbs stuck together, our bodies flush and relaxed in a way they hadn't been in weeks. Or for me, at least. I'd forgotten how much better I slept when she was beside me. How the rest of the world seemed to fade away when I could hold her close.

River's body slotted against mine like it was made for me. Tucked into my side as she slept, the slow rise and fall of her chest soothed the deep-seated ache that had burrowed itself in me since the night she'd been shot. I hadn't even realized to what extent I'd missed it—needed it.

And yet, I felt undeserving. River—sweet Riv, my Riv—may have forgiven me but I couldn't forgive myself. I wanted to give myself to her completely, to lay everything on the table, but I couldn't. I apparently wasn't fucking allowed.

"Harry," Angela said softly, standing a few steps behind me while I watched Riv and Zayn down by the lake through the kitchen window. My hands were curled into fists at my side. Her tone was never this gentle and it irritated me.

"I just don't understand why," I muttered through clenched teeth and forced myself to look away. Toward the ground.

Despite my initial reluctance to her, Angela and I had spent enough time together discussing Riv's recovery and what to expect going forward, that I had come to respect her. If only because her sole purpose was keeping the woman I loved healthy, happy, and alive.

That wasn't to say that I necessarily agreed with her on everything. One of those things being that for some reason I wasn't allowed to tell River that I loved her—something that I'd accidentally blurted to Angela that I had been planning on doing, for reasons fucking beyond me. Quite the mistake on my part. She was quick to tell me under no circumstances was I to do that.

It didn't make me feel any better that her reasoning was that it might stress River out. A wonderful feeling, really—being told that telling your girlfriend you loved her might exacerbate her already rampant brain bleed. Exactly what every man wanted to hear.

"It's stupid," I grunted and shoved away from the counter, stalking toward the other end of the kitchen. "It's fucking stupid. You're stupid—" I blinked, blowing out a breath, before muttering, "I—fuck, I didn't mean that. I just—"

To my surprise, Angela was smiling softly. It caused my own frown to deepen. "It's okay," she said. "Let her tell you first, alright?"

"Why?" I snarled, but deep down I already knew the answer. Before Angela had a chance to response, I set my jaw and cleared my throat, almost flinching as I went on, "It's because of her memory loss, isn't it?"

Angela said nothing. I knew she wouldn't. She took this patient confidentiality thing very seriously, which pissed me off to no end. Refused to even let me sit it on River's weekly assessments.

"I've noticed it," I said quietly, not meeting her eye. "She didn't tell me." With a roll of my eyes, I added, "and no. It wasn't because I was listening in on your stupid fucking appointments." Although it wasn't for lack of trying.

The first time I'd realized it, it'd felt like a physical blow to my chest. For a couple of weeks, we'd be mid-conversation and she'd suddenly scrunch up her nose, give me a small smile, and say she'd forgotten what she was going to say. Or I'd be talking about something, and she'd blink a few times, like she couldn't concentrate or remember what was going on, her eyes clouding over.

What solidified it was a couple of mornings ago, when we'd woken up beside each other, talking about nothing in particular and I'd brought up the second time we'd gone to Italy. Her smile had faltered, and she'd said, "When we went a second time...?" Then she blinked almost as quickly, her cheeks flushing pink, before suddenly blurting, "Oh, right. Okay. The second time."