Page 57 of Heimlock

The Weyr reunion was for family, so that means it has to do with a family member, right? “Did someone in the family hurt him?”

Fynn’s expression goes carefully blank, silently confirming my suspicion. I nod, more to myself than to him. It still isn’t enough clarity to truly understand, but it’s the first real crumb I’ve received so far.

He probably won’t answer, but I ask anyway. “Why has he never had any long-term relationships?”

The red Dragon shifts uncomfortably. “You should ask him that.”

“I did. He said he didn’t know.”

“Again, I’m not divulging my brother’s past. But I will say that I firmly believe we accept the love we think we deserve.”

“He doesn’t think he’s worthy of love?”

Fynn’s jaw clenches. He goes so long without speaking, I think he won’t answer. Finally, he says, “I think it’s hard to believe you deserve something you don’t have a clear concept of.” He stands, signalling that the conversation is done. “Thank you for bringing the food. I’ll let you know my opinion.”

I follow him back to the front door, distracted by my thoughts as I put my shoes on. Somehow, this conversation has caused more questions than answers, but it still offers insight. When he opens the door, I give Fynn a small smile, ready for the solitude of home.

“Kyrielle?”

I pause on the doorstep to look back at the towering Dragon. “Yes?”

Fynn’s gold eyes search my face for something as he says, “My brother is one of the kindest, strongest men I’ve ever met. I owe him everything.” Pain twists his face, and he swallows hard before continuing. “Please do not engage with him if you’re not willing to make it stick. He deserves someone who will stay, no matter what. Promise me you won’t try to dig deeper unless you’re willing to sit in a few graves.”

There’s no right words appearing right now, so all I can do is walk away.

***

Trinte won’t speak to me. It’s been three days since the conversation at the caterer, and he’s ignored every text and the single phone call I allowed myself to indulge in. Any intelligent adult would tell me to leave him alone; he’s made it more than clear where we stand.

Yet, this drive to push him won’t disappear.

After Orliana, I’m unable to look away from people hurting. It’s why I help women escape dangerous situations — and it’s why I can’t leave Trinte alone.

It’s also why I’m watching him slam fists into a punching bag, frustration yanking his brows together. It’s a busy night at the gym, with each station assigned and fighters waiting to jump into the ring. Trinte has been abusing his punching bag for forty-five minutes. Sweat flies with each slamming fist.

I arrived an hour ago, intending to get some practice in the ring, but instead, I’m sitting on the bleachers, covering my hair with my light blue hoodie. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t noticed me yet.

Which is good, because I’m trying to collect the courage to go speak with him.

Yes, it makes me a hypocrite. My boundary around the battle gym has been clear from the start, and here I am about to violate it for selfish reasons.

I just want him to talk to me.

Trinte pauses, chest heaving, guzzling from his water bottle. His eyes track the fighters in the practice ring where two Orcs attempt to smash the other one into a pulp.

My gossamer wings twitch with irritation when Koral, a female Elf with fluorescent pink skin, stops to talk to Trinte. She’s tall, with toned limbs. Magenta hair swishing in a lush ponytail. I can’t see her expression, but I watch her hands brush against his forearm. They share a laugh.

He laughs with her. Dimples and fangs appear. He wipes sweat from his forehead, revealing a sliver of blue stomach. To my dismay, his tail curls toward her, a sign that a Dragon is interested.

Fuck.

The sense of possessiveness heating my skin right now is inappropriate, but when he grins at her, my legs act of their own accord, bolting me upright. My wings flare on instinct, casting an orange glow around me.

Mismatched eyes meet mine. The smile lighting up his face vanishes. The Elf turns to see where his glare is pointed, frowning with confusion when she sees it’s me. We’ve never fought, and it’s nearly impossible to resist the urge to challenge her in front of everyone.

With methodical steps, I make my way off the bleachers, my boots sounding like a hammer against an anvil. The Elf excuses herself, shooting me a worried look paired with a grimace.

That’s right; fuck off.