“Because I didn’t want to. Because what’s going on with you isn’t your fault,” Christine said firmly.
“They said…I’m dangerous. I…hurt people.” He looked so upset by the idea that she wanted to hug him. But she wasn’t sure how he might take the gesture.
“I don’t care what they said—it wasn’t your fault,” she said, frowning. “It was the PTSD that made you do those things they said you did.”
“PT…SD?” He looked confused.
“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” Christine told him. “What those other Kindred called ‘the Fury.’ It’s what happens to some people when they go through a traumatic event. It…messes with your mind, but it’s not your fault and there is help for it. There’s therapy you can get—people who will understand.”
“You sound…like you know,” Roarn said.
“I do. My little brother…” She cleared her throat. “He was in a war and saw some terrible things. Things that hurt him—hurt his mind.”
Her words seemed to trigger something in him because he shivered all over in a way that made his orange and black striped fur ruffle.
“My brother…” he began in a strangled voice. “He and I…we also…went to war.”
“Oh Roarn, I’m so sorry,” she murmured sympathetically. “Did…did you lose him?”
He nodded jerkily and she noticed that his fingers were opening and closing, squeezing convulsively into fists. A low noise, somewhere between a moan and a growl rose in his throat and his golden-green eyes had a crazy look in them—a look like he was staring straight at her but not seeing her.
What was he seeing, Christine wondered? Was it some awful thing that had happened in his past? Was the memory of his brother triggering him? If he was about to go into that Fury state the other Kindred had talked about, maybe she should make herself scarce.
But Christine found she couldn’t leave the big Monstrum—no matter how dangerous the situation was. She had to be there for him—had to help him through this.
Instinctively, she stepped forward and reached for him. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, so Christine stepped between his thighs and pulled his head close to her breasts, just as she had the night before when the Fenster’s music had set him off.
“It’s okay, baby,” she murmured, stroking his shoulders, which were so hard they felt like concrete under his silky fur. “Everything is going to be all right. Don’t think about it—don’t think about the bad memory. Concentrate on staying here with me, in the present. Don’t let the past pull you away from me.”
Roarn made another anguished noise and then his arms came up to encircle her waist like a drowning man grabbing for something to keep him afloat. He pressed his face between her breasts, his breath hot and panting through the sweatshirt she was wearing.
Christine continued to murmur soothing nothings, stroking his broad back and shoulders, trying to comfort him, in what she sensed was a deep and awful grief. Roarn, for his part, kept clinging to her—his breathing short, panicked panting. She was getting really worried about him—he didn’t seem to be getting better. What else could she do to calm him down?
Then he began tugging at the bottom of her sweatshirt, pulling it up as though he was trying to get it off.
Remembering how it had seemed to help him to put his face between her bare breasts the night before, Christine pulled the top up and off. Luckily, she hadn’t had time to put on a bra. She wondered if he was going to want to suck her nipples again—this didn’t seem like the time for it, but at this point she was so worried for the big Monstrum she would have done almost anything to calm him down.
But Roarn didn’t try to tease or suck her nipples. He just pressed his face between her breasts and inhaled, taking in deep, shaky breaths as though he was trying to physically breathe her in.
Christine had no idea what he was doing but she didn’t try to stop him. She just kept stroking his shoulders and let him bury his face between her breasts. And to her relief, it seemed to work. At last the tension in his big, muscular body began to ease and his breathing became even and normal.
When he looked up at her, his golden-green eyes were sane—if suspiciously bright.
“Sorry, he rumbled hoarsely. “Fury…so strong. Needed to breathe…to smell…”
Christine thought she knew what he was saying.
“You needed to smell my scent?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
He nodded, his velvety cheeks still rubbing against the inner slopes of her breasts.
“Helps,” he said simply. “Nothing ever…helped the Fury…before. But your scent…helps.”
Christine carded her fingers through his long, black hair, pushing it away from his high forehead.
“That’s good then—I’m glad I can help you,” she told him.
For a moment a look of despair came over his face.