Page 68 of Aryn

I hum my understanding. “There rarely is in life.”

“A few nights later, I woke up to the smell of smoke. There was a fire downstairs, but everyone was asleep. I couldn’t get them to wake up. Years later, I realized they were probably drugged, but I was only thirteen. I wasn’t thinking like that, you know?”

“That’s understandable,” I say softly.

“I decided I was going to carry them out. I wasn’t exactly small, even back then, but I was a kid. Gideon’s room was the closest to the door, so I went for him first. I got him on my back and carried him outside, and I was running in for my parents when I saw Irick walking away. I yelled at him, screamed at him to fucking help me when I realized he had a gas can and a blowtorch.”

My stomach clenches with the betrayal he must’ve felt. “I’m sorry.”

“He turned and looked at me for a minute, but I couldn’t tell if he was sorry or just indifferent. He said, ‘You don’t get to love things, Cato, and you don’t get to keep them. Not in this life. You might as well learn that now.’ Right then, I learned you can’t trust anyone. He raised me, and all it took was a single command before he was willing to kill us all. He could’ve helped us escape, or at the very least warned us. There were a hundred different ways that night could’ve gone.”

“Your parents?”

He shakes his head, tracing the scars on his cheek. “I went back in, tried to get to them, but whatever Irick put in the house caused an explosion. A metal beam fell on me, and it was hot enough… well. To do this. I could barely even crawl out, then had to watch as the place went down in flames with our parents inside.”

“And Gideon?”

“He’s… fine.” When his jaw clenches, he catches my curious gaze and shakes his head. “He survived without so much as a scratch on his pretty face. He blamed me, though.”

“Blamed you?”

“Not for the fire. For getting him first. We fought about it a lot. Duked it out a few times, and let it settle in the past. Well. I did, in any case. I’m not sure he ever got over it. Once he realized I didn’t need him to take care of me anymore, we went our separate ways. Kept tabs on each other from a distance, met up a few times a year, but we were never close after that.” He huffs again, a sad, abrupt thing. “Fire eventually took him from me, too.”

My hand wraps around his wrist, halting our steps and forcing him to look at me. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Yeah,” he says with a sad smile. “Me too.”

Tentatively, I reach for his cheek where those scars peek out of his beard, but I hesitate at the conflicted look on his face. “You can touch,” he says, so softly it’s almost a whisper.

My fingertips brush the edges of those awful scars before trailing down his jawline. “The scars don’t take anything away from you, Cato. They only give you more fire.”

“They’re a reminder I couldn’t save them.”

“They’re a reminder that you tried,” I counter. “You didn’t leave them behind. You know that, right?”

He nods, then the tension between us breaks when he chuckles. I tilt my head curiously, and he glances down at where my tail has wrapped around his waist. “Gods,” I groan as I pull it back and tuck it under my coat.

There’s a sadness to his voice when he offers me a half-hearted smirk. “Told you it likes me.”

We’re near the treeline now, the farmhouse visible through the trunks. Sounds carry our way, evidence of the others working on their assigned chores.

“I hope you know he was wrong,” I say as we stand there on the edge of this pocket of privacy we’ve created.

“About what?” he asks, voice rough.

“Our losses don’t define our lives. You’re allowed to love things, Cato.”

He swallows roughly, staring ahead. “But I can’t keep them.”

“Maybe not,” I agree. “Life doesn’t offer us those sorts of guarantees.”

“Then what’s the point?”

I hesitate, forcing the words past my tight throat. “You have to decide if it’s worth it. If the happiness still matters, if it’s still important, if it’s taken away.”

“Was it worth it for you?” he asks.

“I’d do it all over again,” I answer honestly.