8. Darian
Chapter eight
Darian
Guilt filled Darian’s chest as he led Celia through the meadow in the shadow of the mountains, searching for the trail that would lead them to her home.
She was silent, her eyes full of tears.
He never should have asked—he was stupid. That wasn’t a question you asked someone, certainly not someone who had given up everything she’d known to build a home so close to the Gloaming Mountains, where no one else dared to live.
Especially not after she had spent so much time avoiding so many of his uncles’ questions at breakfast. He had clearly hurt her.
A tear spilled down her cheek, and his stomach churned as he began rubbing gentle circles onto the back of her hand with his thumb. He couldn’t do much, but at least he could get her home.
Maybe the dragons would help cheer her up.
If only he could figure out how to get her there. The trail blended into the grass so nicely, he couldn’t even find it.
Her hand in his felt so right…if he ignored the fact that he was only holding it because he’d made her cry by asking an insensitive question.
There. Just ahead, the trail, a thin strip with no tall grass, leading north.
He turned them to intersect with it sooner, and Celia let out a cry as she began falling forward.
Darian turned and caught her before her face landed in the grass, his heart rate spiking as she landed in his arms. He nearly fell with her, but he somehow kept them both upright, pulling her close to his chest and helping her stand again.
She stood closer than she ever had, looking up at him, her eyes still glossy with tears.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, reaching up to wipe the tears away, letting go of her hand and brushing them away with his thumbs. “I never should have asked.”
“I haven’t told anyone,” she said, the words catching. “You’re the first person I’ve talked to about it. I left in the night after we buried him, and talking to the dragons apparently doesn’t count,” she said with a tearful laugh, “because I can tell them without crying.”