Chapter 27
I’m woken by cries.
At first, I think they’re from my nightmares—I’d been dreaming of Jonas huddled atop the Wall, weeping—but then I see Gryphon tossing on the floor, battling something in his sleep.
I watch him, thinking of all the reasons I shouldn’t comfort him.
I tell myself that I want to see him suffer, but it’s not true anymore.
Not after that kiss.
I touch my lips, remembering the first time I gave Gryphon stitches.
I was five and he was six. He’d been playing rough with Leo and cracked his head against a rock.
By then, I’d gotten my first crossbody medical kit so I could respond to emergencies, but I’d never practiced suturing on a real person.
I remember being terrified. Seven stitches later, though, Gryphon was almost as good as new.
The next morning he started walking me to school, bringing me a daisy every day they were in season.
He kept it up even after my father died, when I became convinced that rigid adherence to the rules was the only way to keep my family safe.
When Marina and the others started taunting me, he’d still walked me to and from school and sat by me most days during lunch, right up until the betrothal ceremony.
I wish I could make sense of him, of how he must have felt that day. Sure, he didn’t know how I felt about him back then, so he couldn’t have known just how deep his abandonment would cut. Still, on behalf of that sad, lonely little girl, I deserve an apology.
But so does he.
Before I can change my mind, I slide out of bed, feet silent against the cold floor. Even in sleep, Gryphon’s jaw is clenched. His hand twitches, reaching for a weapon that isn’t there.
My heart kicks at the sight of him like this—vulnerable, tormented. He confessed at training and then atop the roof that he is defying his father, a man whose love and respect he so clearly craves. It must be torture to have your loyalties pulled in opposite directions.
I drop down beside him, carefully lifting his head onto my lap. His eyes fly open, wild and alight before recognition softens his features.
I smooth his hair back, my fingers gliding over the dark and silky strands. He tenses again, eyes fluttering shut, then open, then closed again.
I sing softly, and the fight leaves him. It’s a tune Dad used to sing to Jonas and me when the world was simpler. Different from Gran’s favorite, “Down in Noah’s Valley,” its melody is sweet and haunting.
Blacks and bays, dapples and grays,
Coach and six little horses.
Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry…
My fingers trace slow circles on Gryphon’s temple, coaxing the tension away.
His eyes open again. His hand closes around my wrist, and my heart stumbles. His gaze is pleading. “I don’t need you,” he rasps. “I don’t need anyone.”
He’s not fully awake. I don’t move, don’t even breathe, waiting until his grip loosens, his hand falling away, fingers brushing my thigh as they slide to the floor. A shiver races through me. I’m repaying a friendship debt, I tell myself, my heart thudding against my ribs. Nothing more.
My fingers resume their slow, rhythmic strokes, moving over his forehead, smoothing the lines etched by worry and pain. His breathing evens out, his head sinking deeper into my lap. My hands glide over his temples, massaging away the knots coiled there.
His breath shudders, his lips parting slightly, and my eyes are drawn to the curve of his mouth, soft and full. I imagine the faint whisper of his breath against my skin. My pulse is pounding.
I knead his jaw gently, easing the tightness there next.
His body softens, melting into my touch.
He’s asleep. Really asleep this time. He’s beautiful like this.
Peaceful. I let myself linger a moment longer.
Then slowly, carefully, I ease his head off my lap, lowering it onto the folded blanket.
He stirs, brows drawing together like he feels my absence, but his eyes remain closed.
I stand, my knees stiff, my legs trembling.
I watch him for another heartbeat, then force myself to turn away.
I’m crawling into bed when his voice halts me.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
I crawl under the quilt without answering as a truth slices through me: my future husband may not hate me.
The knowledge is cruel.
It comes just as I’m about to leave Noah’s Valley behind.