Page 129 of Heimlock

“The clock is ticking. Do you know what day?”

“Clock?” I place the fork down, alarmed. “What clock?”

Trinte grimaces, watching me warily. “Once it's activated, it has to be completed within twenty-one days.”

“You did not mention that,” I hiss. A part of me hoped it could be put off until everyone forgot about it.

“I was going to, once breakfast was done,” he says calmly. “We’re about twenty minutes ahead of schedule in that regard.”

Pushing away the rest of the pancakes, sick to my stomach, I sit back in the chair. “So I have three weeks until you could possibly die?”

“I’m not going to die,” he says evenly.

“Trinte won’t die,” Fynn says at the same time.

I let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t know that. Neither of you does.”

Trinte looks at the three of us, sitting back. His jaw saws back and forth while he contemplates whatever he’s about to say. He stands. We watch him walk to the kitchen. There’s the sound of glass bottles and the fridge closing, then he’s walking back with four Heimlocks in his hands.

“It’s nine in the morning,” Fynn says, eyeing his as Trinte passes them out.

“You’re going to want a drink for this, brother.”

“For what?”

Trinte opens his drink by shoving the bottle’s neck into the crease of his elbow and popping off the top. Without looking at me, he does the same for mine. Why is that so damn attractive?

“You’ve asked for answers for years. Now you’re going to get them. Then maybe, just maybe—” He shoots Orliana a meaningful look. “—you’ll understand my choices.”

Trinte proceeds to tell all of us his life story. From the first time his father blamed him as a toddler for killing his mother, to his first assault, and onward. The beatings, starvation, and being refused simple luxuries like beds or showers. How he was electrocuted for not complying; what happened on the day he lost his eye.

By the end, there’s not a dry eye amongst us. I’ve been quietly crying for the last hour, holding his hand for dear life. The things this man has endured are unimaginable, and that’s not counting the things he doesn’t share about his adulthood.

“I had no idea,” Fynn says, face twisted with anguish.

Trinte wipes away a tear with the back of his hand. “I know. He said no one would believe me. I tried showing the bruises to a teacher, and they didn’t do anything about it. So it was easy to think he was right.”

My heart has cracked in half, and all I want to do is curl into his lap. To hold him until every pain has melted away.

Orliana wipes away a tear. “I’ve never heard of the Cairanin before; does the loser endure pain?” When Trinte nods, Orliana’s eyes spark with something dark. “Good.”

Trinte’s mouth flattens in a grimace. “I don’t think I’ll have peace until he’s dead, Orliana. And I deserve peace more than he deserves life.” He looks at Fynn. “Did he mention why he showed up?”

Fynn shakes his head. “There was never a chance. He’d just arrived.”

Trinte hums thoughtfully. “It’s selfish, whatever it is.”

“I have a question,” Orliana says quietly. Trinte raises an eyebrow, offering silent permission. Twirling a strand of hair with a finger, she asks, “What … did he say at the Weyr reunion? To set you off?”

Trinte’s entire body freezes. His knuckles whiten around the beer bottle. Fynn leans forward, clearly interested. Me? Judging by his reaction, I’m filled with dread. I watch his throat work, like the words are stuck in his throat.

I scoot my chair closer to him and snatch up a hand. He returns my hand squeeze before saying to Orliana, “He said he missed my body.”

A yawning pit in my stomach opens up, starving for every inch of devastation that coats my bones right now. A grown man, a father, told that to his son.

“I’ll kill him if you want.” I mean every word.

Trinte sends me a flat look. “You’re so bloodthirsty. You sure you don’t have any Dragon in you?”