47. Chapter Forty-Seven
It’s eerie déjà vu as I pound on his door. “Trinte, open up!”
Silence is the only reply. I don’t know if he’s here, but where else could he be?
Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? It’s not like I know him. He could have some favorite spot that offers solace. A Dragon his size can fly across the continent of Avalon in a day. Trinte could be anywhere.
All sixteen of my calls and five of my texts were ignored. He’s always been quick to respond, so even if Orliana didn’t tell me what was going on, I’d know something was wrong.
What if he’s hurting himself?
What if he’s dead?
He admitted that he's been close to killing himself.
What if this is the final reason?
Terror unlike anything I’ve ever experienced spikes, forcing my fist to pound on the door harder. “Please, Trinte. Please open up.”
I’m becoming hysterical, with tears soaking my face. I can’t lose him — I just found him.
I grab the door handle, despite having checked it six times already, and rattle it violently. “I will melt this fucking thing, Trinte! Don’t think I won’t!”
If all that stands between me and saving his life is this door, I will incinerate it. Sobs violently shake my chest. I’m full on hyperventilating as I lift my fists, lighting them on fire.
“I’m doing it right now!” I scream. My blazing hand grips the door handle, turning it red almost instantly.
The lock slides out of place and the door swings open, ripping the almost-melted handle out of my grasp.
His energy is like a punch in the gut. I don’t have to be a Siphon to know something is devastatingly wrong here. He stares down at me, somehow both empty and furious at the same time. Like the only thing that exists for him now is unfettered hate. That single blue eye blazes with it.
“What the fuck do you want, Kyrielle?” he snarls. Nothing of the Trinte I’ve been falling for exists right now.
Except he does. I know he does. If he’s alive, he’s still fighting.
Ignoring his fury, I leap into his chest, hugging him tightly. “Please don’t make me leave. I won’t leave. You’ll have to drag me out by the hair.”
His rigid body is sweltering. My arms barely wrap around his belly, but I cling to him, ready to fight for the privilege to stay. Beg, even, if he tries to shove me out.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says firmly. “You need to leave.”
“No.”
“Kyrielle—”
“No!” I scream into his sweat-soaked shirt, barely able to breathe between sobs. “You will let me stay because I want to stay, Trinte.”
His arms continue to dangle at his sides, the tension turning him into stone. “I don’t want you here.”
Ignoring the pain those words deliver, I hug him tighter. “Yes, you do. You’re just being mean.”
“I am mean.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m a terrible person, Kyrielle.”
“No, you’re not.”
His chest shakes. “I’m not worth it.”
“You are.”
His voice is full of despair as he says, “I’m disgusting.”
It makes me cry harder. “No, you’re not.”
“If you stay, you’ll probably die, too.”
“Then I’ll haunt you,” I say fiercely. I have no idea what that means, but I hug him tighter anyway. My hands are going numb from my desperate clutching.
“I’m not worth loving, Kyrielle,” he whispers, the fight going out of him. Between my arms, his muscles sag.
“And yet, I’m here, loving you, Trinte.”
At that, something seems to break inside him. Big, warm arms wrap around me, pressing me into his broad chest. Relief has me crying harder. He’s alive.
“I’m not worth it,” he whispers, voice cracking.
I raise my head to look at his anguished expression. With as much ferocity as I can muster, I say, “You’re worth it to me.”
His face crumples, and this enormous giant of a man sobs.
Wriggling out of his grasp, I turn around and close the door.
When he falls to the ground in a distraught heap, I go with him.
As he curls into himself, I rest his head in my lap, stroking his hair, wiping away my tears as they plop onto his forehead.
His keening sobs sound like he’s being ripped in half; my soul aches in recognition. Each grieving whimper and every convulsing sob, I hold Trinte as he unravels years of anguish; of abuse. Something tells me no one has ever done this for him.
How much has he shoved down, hidden from the world; hidden from himself?
Trinte’s arms wrap around my waist, mooring himself to my soothing touch. As his sobs turn to plaintive whimpers, I continue stroking his hair and begin telling him all the things that I love and admire about him. Every way he’s made me feel loved and seen.
We spend an unknown amount of hours there on the floor, past sunset and into the darkness of night.
A cocoon of heartbreak and trauma.