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The bed dipped beneath my weight.

Veyr kept his gaze forward, the line of his jaw tight.

“She has them?”

“Yes.”

“Still?”

“I assume.”

“You don’t know?”

His fingers flexed once against his thigh. “I monitor status reports.”

That made me turn.

“You check on them.”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

His shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. “Enough.”

I almost smiled at the answer—so typically him.

Then the reality of it settled in my stomach like cold stone.

He had been watching his family live without him for eight years.

From a distance.

Without speaking.

Without touching.

Without letting them know the man they mourned was still alive.

“That’s cruel.”

His head turned sharply, eyes narrowing.

I held his gaze, didn’t let myself look away.

“To them?” he asked, voice low.

“To you.”

Something shuttered behind his eyes. A door closing. Good. I had expected that.

“No.”

“Veyr.”

“No.”

My own hands were clenched in my lap. I forced them to relax. “You’ve been punishing yourself for eight years.”