SIX #3
What if someone gave this so-called curse to him? What if his father has been holding it all this time—and none of them ever knew?
His fingers twitch against his lap.
“This whole time . . . ” His voice scrapes raw. “My father has been fighting.”
The words sound like they’re being ripped from him.
“And I—” His breath catches. “I turned my back on him.”
His shoulders tremble.
“This whole time, he was fighting for us.”
His voice breaks completely.
“For his family. For the realm.”
His voice shatters—and so does he. His hands lift, pressing against his face, as if he can block it out, as if he can stop the years of resentment from devouring him alive.
A sharp inhale rattles through him, and then, barely above a whisper—“And my father has been all alone.”
His hands uncurl, fingers shaking as they drop uselessly to his lap.
“Alone in there. In his mind.”
A breath shudders through him.
“For nine years.”
That’s when it hits him. Not like a single, crushing blow—but like something unraveling, breaking apart piece by piece, too fast to hold together. His face crumples, his chest heaving, his head bowing under the weight of it.
Nine years.
Nine years he hated a man who had never stopped fighting. Never stopped trying. Never stopped loving him.
His breath leaves him in a choked exhale. He caves inward, breaking beneath the weight of it. I move to him, wrapping my arms around him, holding him tight. He doesn’t speak. But I feel it in the way he clings to me. The way he breaks. And through the bond, I feel it all.
The weight.
The years.
The cost.
And the regret.
Every word he spoke in anger. Every wall he built between himself and his family. Every time he pushed them away. Every time he stayed away because it was easier than facing them. Every time he ran.
The realization crushes him.
I hold on, pulling him closer, pressing my cheek into his hair as my tears slip into the darkness between us.
“You didn’t know,” I repeat, my voice breaking. “You didn’t know.”
“I should have,” he chokes out.
I feel that too—the sharp edge of his self-loathing, the way it cuts into him.
I tighten my hold.
Because I know this weight. And I will not let him carry it alone.
The shadows ripple around him, shifting, embracing.
I slip my fingers into his hair, resting my forehead against his as silent tears fall. I cry with him. For his mother. His father. The boy who carried too much, too soon. For the man I have fallen for.
I don’t know how long we stay like this. Kneeling on the balcony, wrapped in silence, his grief pressing into me through the bond. Eventually, his breathing begins to even out. A long breath leaves him, and I feel the moment he starts pulling himself back together.
His grip loosens slightly, but I don’t let go. Not yet.
Because for the first time since I’ve known him, Thane isn’t just showing his emotions. He is unraveling.
And it’s unsettling.
The warlord, the unshakable force, the man who has always been so fierce and immovable—this is not him.
Or maybe . . . maybe this is him. The part no one was ever meant to see. The part he’s hidden.
I ease back just enough to look at him. His eyes are swollen, rimmed red. His jaw tight, like he’s forcing himself back into control.
I brush my fingers along his jaw, wiping away the damp streaks beneath his eyes. He blinks, like he’s only just realizing he had been crying.
“Thane,” I say softly.
“I’m sorry.” A shaky laugh escapes his lips. “Two nights in a row of me breaking down.”
I shake my head immediately. “Don’t you dare apologize.”
He watches me for a moment, then nods.
I take his hand again, pressing my palm to his.
“We’ll figure this out,” I say quietly. “We’ll find the truth. You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”
He watches me for a long moment, something achingly fragile in his storm-gray eyes.
Then, finally, he exhales. “Okay.”
His fingers curl around mine, hesitant. I squeeze his hand to let him know I’m with him. Always with him.
For a long time, neither of us speaks. The night stretches around us, the wind stirring gently across the balcony. The bond hums between us, but softer now, no longer insistent—just there. Present. Waiting.
I don’t push him to talk. Because I know what it is to be swallowed whole by something too heavy to carry, to be crushed beneath the weight of it, to not even know where to begin.
Eventually, his breath evens out. His grip loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” he murmurs at last. His voice is hoarse, like the words scrape their way out.
I shift closer, my forehead nearly touching his temple. “You don’t have to do anything. Not tonight.”
His jaw clenches, his shoulders pulling inward again. “I can’t just . . . sit here.”
Always a man of action.
“Then don’t,” I say softly, brushing my thumb across his knuckles. “But don’t rush into a fight you’re not ready for, either.”
He exhales through his nose, gaze dropping between us. The bond pulses and I know he feels it too.
A long pause stretches between us.
Then, barely more than a breath— “She was trying to save us.”
I still.
“What?”
His fingers curl, not into a fist, but like he’s trying to grasp something just out of reach.
“My mother. She wasn’t losing herself. She was trying to save us. And we let her die thinking we had already lost her.”
The bond hums quietly between us, but something else thrums beneath it—like an echo of her voice, long gone.
Not madness.
Not surrender.
A mother’s last act of protection.
My throat tightens, my heart breaking all over again. I don’t have answers. I don’t know how to fix this. So I do the only thing I can.
I hold onto him.
He bows his head, shoulders curling further inward, but he doesn’t fall apart this time.
The gentle breeze stirs the edges of my hair, cool against my damp cheeks. The torches flicker in the halls beyond, casting long shadows across the stone. Below, the city is finally quiet, its lights dim in these late hours of the night.
But here, sitting with Thane, nothing feels still.
I feel it in him, in the way his body holds tension even in exhaustion. In the ache that hasn’t settled, that might never fully settle.
Just breathing in the weight of what has changed . . . and what can never be the same again.
I don’t know how long we stay like this—kneeling on the floor, hand in hand, sitting with the truth that can’t be undone.
Eventually, I squeeze his hand.
“Let’s go to bed.”
I shift to stand—but I don’t let go. I won’t.
Thane doesn’t move at first. He just looks up at me, his storm-gray eyes hollowed by everything that’s come undone tonight.
He’s always been unyielding. Unstoppable. Larger than life.
And yet, right now, he looks so small.
It tugs at something deep inside me, something tender and aching.
I tighten my hold on his hand.
Thane nods, then stands. He doesn’t speak, but lets me lead him inside. Hand in hand, we walk back to his quarters.
The bond hums softly between us. The shadows are gone, leaving only the weight of what’s been said, and all that still lingers between us.
The only sound is our bare feet against the cool stone, the whisper of our breath in the empty hall. I don’t know how late it is, but the night feels endless, stretched thin with exhaustion.
When we step into his room, I lead him straight to the bed. He lies back, sinking into the sheets—but his mind is still elsewhere.
I feel it. The distance in his mind, the ache, the weight pressing down on him even now.
I move beside him, curling into his side, anchoring him to something real. To here and now.
His arm curls around me, solid and warm, holding me close. His other hand rests behind his head, his body still tense, his mind still turning. I press closer, my forehead against his shoulder, my fingers slipping over his ribs, grounding him, grounding us.
After some time, his breathing begins to ease.
The tension loosens—just enough.
He’s still carrying it.
But he’s here.