Chapter 7 #2
I heaved a breath, ready to stutter out that he needed to go. Two stubborn arms came around me, careful to avoid my injuries. In one smooth motion, he shifted me so my face was no longer curling into the pillow, but his chest.
So I wasn’t just breaking down in front of Harthon. I was now breaking down on him.
“L-leave,” I hiccupped.
I needed to punctuate my request by pulling away. But his hand started moving along my back, big, sweeping, and painfully gentle. “I’m not leaving.”
“P—” a sob wracked me “—please.” Even as I said it, I found myself doing the opposite of what I needed to do and burrowing into him.
“You forget who gives orders around here,” he replied. “I do. And right now I’m telling you to let it all go.”
His free hand traveled to my nape, drawing circles along my hairline, and I melted.
Stopped trying to fight him even as I soaked the leather at his chest and ugly, pained sounds escaped my throat.
I latched on to the soothing hum of my skin everywhere his hands moved, tender in how they handled me.
Did as he told and let the pain, the hurt, the confusion overwhelm me and wash out with the tears.
All the while, he didn’t tell me to stop, didn’t try to tell me everything was okay.
He just held me, lending me his strength so I didn’t completely shatter.
And I let myself indulge in it, because I needed to.
If I didn’t, I might crack into a million little pieces.
Sometime later, the tears began to slow, and pride reared its ugly head. “I’m—it’s j-just—”
“You don’t need to explain, carella.”
The name and his low, warm tone brought another wash of comfort.
I shook my head against him. “I-I don’t s-snivel like this.” A bold thing to say considering I was still sniveling, face puffy, nose running, patched up with bandages.
But he only said, “Tell me something I don’t know.” His hands kept roaming. “Crying does not make you weak.”
I attempted a snort that came out like a wheeze. “I doubt you ever cry.”
“I have cried before,” he admitted, surprising me. “But not as often as I should. Crying keeps you human.”
“Y-you’re welcome to—” a big sniffle “—join me right now so I’m not the only one doing it.”
His chest bounced beneath my cheek. A chuckle. “If I cry, I won’t have any strength for you to borrow.”
“I d-don’t need your strength.”
“You don’t need it, no. You have plenty of your own to draw from. Crying does not negate that,” he reassured, and my pride settled. “But as I said, I am your weapon and your shield, against opponents we can see and those we cannot.” The hand on my nape crawled into my hair, massaging my scalp.
I closed my eyes and whispered, “I’ve always been my own weapon and shield.”
“You still are. You have been this entire time. But having an extra set around when you’re in a fight is never a bad thing.”
That made sense. And Harthon was the best armor a person could have.
I stopped shuddering against him. The tears had passed, but I wasn’t ready to pull away. Not when I was finally feeling the first semblance of peace I’d had since I ran away to Koerlyn. “People keep dying because of me.”
His hands stilled. “You are not the reason people are dying.”
Staring at the stone wall, my head still against his chest, I stated the sullen facts.
“Koerlyn killed those three people in front of me, and that only happened because I gave myself to him. Men died in the battle after my escape. The kitchen staff and guards were killed by mercenaries who wanted my head. Stefano and the looter boy were put at risk. And Jac—” I took a shaky inhale.
“Jac is going to die because he betrayed you, but he only betrayed you because Koerlyn threatened him to get to me.”
Skies, that was a depressing list. One that would probably grow with time.
“Did any of them die by your hand?”
“No, but—”
“Then they are not dying because of you, but because of the actions of others.” The fingers that were resting in my hair lightly gripped a few strands and tilted my head back.
My watery eyes met his, which swirled with intensity.
“And even if you were not here, even if you’d never encountered the magvis, plenty of people would still be dying.
My men would still be fighting Koerlyn’s.
He would slaughter innocents for entertainment.
The looter boy would still be with his clan, learning to become a monster.
And there wouldn’t be any hope for a better future. ”
Maybe that was true. But still.
He must have seen the stubbornness in my eyes, because neither his hand nor his gaze released me, and he said something that superseded any emotion of my own. “My mother died trying to protect me from my father.”
My lips slowly parted.
Harthon continued before I could process the depth of that statement.
“My father was violent. He punished us when we angered him, but I still rebelled, still thought I could get the better of him at least once. One day, I took it too far, and he beat me until I was nearly dead. My mother tried to stop him, and he killed her right in front of me.” Raw pain was a current through every word, even while he delivered them unflinchingly.
The scars that covered his arms—I’d always assumed they were battle wounds. Perhaps his father had put them there instead.
His eyes flicked between mine. “I blame myself for this every day that I wake up in a world she was stolen from.”
That was a weight no one should have to carry. “You did not kill her.”
The knob in his throat bobbed. “No. But I was old enough to know my mother would intervene because she loved me, and that my father’s rage would reach her, too. And I did it anyway.”
I shook my head against his grip. “You cannot blame yourself, Harthon. You cannot sit here and tell me blood is not on my hands if you see it on your own for something your father did.”
“Yes, I can. The difference is that you couldn’t anticipate any of those deaths you named. They were never a consequence that you could have expected. You couldn’t have knowingly prevented them. Fuck, most of them occurred only because those eyes of yours exist.” He searched my gaze for emphasis.
I went to shake my head again, not to deny what he said, but to try to chase his pain away. I wasn’t able to, because his hand skated from my hair to my cheekbone, resting there, keeping my head in place.
“I’m telling you this because you need to know you aren’t to blame.
But if you must blame yourself, then know that it’s possible to carry on with the guilt.
The emotions won’t drown you forever.” His thumb stroked my skin.
“I do it every day. I wear my hair long because my mother loved it that way. It reminds me of her, reminds me of a failure I will never repay, but it also gives me the strength to continue striving for good.”
Words failed me as I studied this man who’d endured so much darkness without allowing it to swallow him, and everything else from before was forgotten. My doubts, my hurt, the messy, complex situation that hung between us vanished. His arms, his warmth, his strength became everything.
I didn’t know who moved first, but slowly, the space between us disappeared. His lips brushed mine, a whisper of sensation. And then he was kissing me, a soft, heart-wrenchingly tender touch that only lasted a heartbeat. His whiskers brushed against my skin as he pulled away.
We stared at one another, bereft of things to say.
He was the first to find words. “You’ll rest in this bed until the healer says it’s okay to move.”
I probably should have bristled at his order, but I couldn’t.
“I will find who’s responsible for your attack. Until then, Cal, North, or myself will be among the many men guarding you. I swear to you, what happened yesterday will not happen again, even if that means I am by your side every second of every day,” he vowed.
I swallowed. Every second of every day?
That…I wouldn’t hate that, even though I should.
“Can I still enter the garden?” I asked.
“The garden is still yours,” he reassured.
Speaking of the garden reminded me of something far more important than any of this—the revelation I’d reached before my attackers had appeared.
“The path. It’s in First Territory,” I told him.
He didn’t question it. “How specific can you get with the location?”
“Right now, I only know it’s in the Territory, but with a little more time, I should have more detail.” I worried my lip. “Stefano and the looter boy were telling me about First and the people there. This isn’t going to be fun, is it?”
His mouth lifted into a wry smile. “I’d keep your expectations low.”