I can take it. Can shoulder her anger and pain if it helps her process even a fraction of what she's feeling. Can be whatever she needs me to be right now, even if it's just a target for her grief.
"You can be mad at me," I tell her quietly. "As mad as you need to be. I can take it, little bird. I promise."
She shudders against me, her sobs gradually quieting to hiccupping breaths. "I don't... I don't want to be mad. I just want Papa back."
"I know." I rock her gently, the way I used to when she was smaller and had nightmares. "I want that too."
"He said you'd take care of me." Her voice is muffled against my shoulder. "He said I'd be safe with you."
"You will be." I pull back enough to meet her eyes, brush tears off her cheeks with my thumbs. "I know I couldn't save your papa, but Iwillkeep you safe. I will take care of you. That's not a promise I'm going to break."
She studies my face with that unnerving intensity children sometimes have, like she's looking straight into my soul tomeasure my honesty. Whatever she sees there must satisfy her, because she nods slowly.
Then she buries her face back against my neck and just cries. Softer now, exhausted, the kind of crying that comes when there's nothing left to do but let the grief flow through you.
I hold her and let her, my own tears finally spilling over to track down my cheeks. For Daryn. For this child who's lost too much. For the future we're all going to have to figure out how to navigate without him.
Movement catches my eye.
Keira stands in the doorway, one hand pressed to the frame like she needs it for support. She's watching us with an expression that breaks what's left of my heart—grief and longing and something that looks like it might be regret, all tangled together in the shadows under her eyes.
She looks as wrecked as I feel.
We stare at each other across the garden. I want to say something, anything, but with Amisra crying against my shoulder, I don't know where to even start.I'm sorry. I never wanted this. Please just talk to me.
But the words stick in my throat because I can see it in her face—the distance, the wariness, the walls she's rebuilt between us. She's already pulling back, already retreating into that careful professionalism she wears like armor.
She's so close and yet completely unreachable.
"Keira," I start, my voice rough.
She shakes her head slightly, takes a step back. The message is clear:Not now. Maybe not ever.
Then she turns and disappears back into the house, leaving me holding Amisra in the garden where Daryn used to laugh, where everything felt possible just a few short months ago.
Where now everything feels impossibly broken.
16
KEIRA
Istand in the doorway of Amisra's bedroom, one hand braced against the frame like it's the only thing keeping me upright.
The room is dark save for the moonlight filtering through gauze curtains, casting everything in shades of silver and shadow. Not quite sunrise. That liminal space between night and morning where the world feels suspended, waiting for something to shift.
I watched him carry her inside hours ago. Watched as Valas gathered Amisra against his chest like she weighed nothing, her tear-stained face pressed to his shoulder, her small fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. The tenderness in the gesture had gutted me even as I forced myself to stay back, to give them the space they needed.
He'd laid down beside her in the narrow bed, curling his tall frame around her small one. Soothed her with soft words I couldn't quite hear from the hallway, ran his fingers through her tangled hair until her breathing evened out. Until she finally, finally fell asleep.
I'd given them that. Given them the privacy to grieve together, to find whatever comfort they could in each other'spresence. Because they needed it. Because Amisra deserves to know she's not alone, that Uncle Val isn't going anywhere, that someone still loves her even though her world has been torn apart.
But standing here watching them—watching the rise and fall of their breathing, the way Valas's arm is still wrapped protectively around the child even in sleep—something twists sharp and painful beneath my ribs.
I can't do this.
Can't give in the way Amisra did. Can't trust him, can't let my guard down, can't just... forget what he is to me now.
He owns me.
