But I didn’t feel much like that person at the moment. I felt…fractured. Fragmented. Like I was under fire from all sides, and each impact left a tiny crack in me. Soon, those cracks would spread and touch, and I would just fall apart.

Because I wasn’t good enough.

I wasn’t good enough to save Brett. To avenge Ethan. To raise Kaci. To protect Manx. To be…whatever Jace needed. To keep Marc.

To lead the Pride someday.

They needed better than me. They deserved better than me.

My shoulders shook and I threw my head back into the spray, shoving wet hair from my face with my right hand, grateful for the clear plastic cast protector.

“Faythe?”

I jumped and nearly slipped on the wet tiles.

“Whoaaa.” Marc pulled open the shower door and steadied me, careful to grab my arm above the cast. “What’s wrong?”

I blubbered something even I couldn’t understand and threw my arms around him, heedless of his clothes. He stroked wet hair down my back and ignored the water soaking into his shirt and jeans. I didn’t have to be strong with Marc. With him, I could just be me. I could say whatever I was thinking, do whatever felt right, cry if I was upset, and he thought no worse of me.

He picked me up.

I wasn’t good enough for Marc.

When the worst of my sobs had eased, he gently peeled me away, then stripped while I stood beneath the spray. Then he stepped into the shower with me and closed the door.

“What happened?”

But I hardly knew where to start. “Ethan’s dead. Jake’s dead. Charlie’s dead. Brett’s dead. We have no evidence, and those damned birds aren’t going to stop coming. There are more of them now.” Ten, at my last count. And until we learned how to fight them, our only options were to hide in our own home or to flee it.

Neither was acceptable.

I sniffled and wiped my face with my good hand. “I thought I could fix it. I thought I could get the proof, and protect Brett from his dad, and prove to the council that Malone’s behind this. But I can’t. I can’t do anything right. I can barely even wash my own hair.” I sobbed again, gesturing to my shampoo bottle with my broken arm.

Marc leaned forward to kiss my wet forehead. “Then let me do it.” He turned me around by my shoulders and gently tugged my head back by my hair to rewet it. Then he nudged me forward and squirted shampoo on top of my head.

He used too much and started at the top, rather than at the ends, but I barely noticed, because he was washing my hair. Massaging my scalp with strong, confident fingers as he fulfilled my need, in the most literal sense. Once again, he was there for me when I needed him, and I was…

Not good enough for him.

“You deserve better than me,” I whispered, and the selfish part of me hoped he wouldn’t hear.