Page 121 of Heimlock

Trinte snorts. He lifts one of my arms and squishes my bicep. “With those boulders? No, Firefly, you’re exactly where you belong.”

Pleasure rolls down my spike; my cheeks heat. “Thanks.”

“I love you, Kyrielle,” he repeats, voice more clear after a few gulps of water.

I shift, grabbing a pillow to hug. Even if I feel it, the words aren’t ready yet. “Is it okay if I don’t say it back at this moment?”

“Definitely,” he says, tone firm. “My love is given freely, without expectation.”

Those words expand the size of my heart until it hurts. We’re sitting in near pitch black, so while I can’t see his face, his energy says so much. It’s earnest; hopeful. Nothing like the avalanche of desperate hate that greeted me earlier.

His arm reaches across the couch, resting on the top. Deft fingers play with my hair. “Who told you?”

“Orliana. She was hysterical.”

He sighs. “I’ll bet.”

Placing a hand on his leg, I ask quietly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Trinte twirls my hair as he works through whatever he’s thinking about. The silence is more intimate than terrifying. Being in his space, his energy, is a haven. I’m sure if asked, he’ll let me stay the night. I hope so.

“My father was there today.”

I know this is important, but I don’t fully understand why. “Was he invited?”

“I’m fairly positive he was not.”

“What did he want?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t bother asking before I tried to kill him.”

My breathing and heart stay steady at those words. “No success?”

“No success today.”

I put a pin in the word ‘today.’ We’ll be discussing that later. “Orliana said you punched Fynn.”

Trinte lets out a long, menacing growl. “He fucking deserved it.”

“What did he do?”

“He electrocuted me.”

I gasp. Knowing full well how that feels, I’m furious on Trinte’s behalf. “Why?”

“Because my father was almost dead and Fynn couldn’t get me to stop.”

“And you punched him for it?”

“I punched him for electrocuting me, yes. And told him I never wanted to see him again.” His breathing turns ragged again, and he inhales a shuddering breath.

With a too-young voice full of pain, he whispers, “I can’t believe he did that.”

Trinte starts crying again. I crawl into his lap, allowing him to hold me close. Resting my head against his chest, I listen to his sharp inhalations and cleansing exhalations.

Hearing a heart heal itself.

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