Page 19 of Bittersweet & Strange

No.

That’s not entirely true.

He isn’t asking.

He’s begging.

I fold my arms across my chest and study him while silence settles between us. Snow melts against his coat and drips onto the stone floor. His boots are soaked. His face is still red from the cold. His lower lip disappears briefly between his teeth before he releases it again.

He found the tracks. He followed them into the mountains without knowing where they would lead. He rode through snow that should have convinced him to turn back, crossed my property without permission, then walked into a castle most people in the village refuse to speak about above a whisper.

For his father.

“Please,” he says again.

The word lands differently this time. The defiance is still there, but his voice is quieter now, strained by exhaustion and fear.

My gaze moves toward the cell before returning to him.

“You broke into my home.”

“My father was missing.”

I almost laugh. “You should leave.”

“No.”

He takes a step toward me. I notice his fingers tightening around the sleeves of his coat. The frantic pulse at his throat. The uncertainty in his eyes every time they move toward the iron bars behind me before returning to my face.

He’s afraid.

There’s no hiding it.

His shoulders have drawn inward. His body seems caught between the instinct to fight and the instinct to run. Every few seconds, his attention returns to his father.

Still, he stands in front of me.

“Get out of my house.”

His throat moves as he swallows. “I’m not leaving without him.”

Behind us, the old man closes his eyes and lowers his head against the iron bars, already seeming to know this conversation isn’t going to end well.

“Boone, please! Go.”

“No.”

The answer is softer this time, but no less certain. His spine straightens. He draws a slow breath. His gaze finally drops from mine.

“Please let him go.”

I wait.

He takes another breath.

“My father didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He’s my prisoner.”