Okay. Alright. I can understand that much at least. I’m grateful for his clear explanation of facts.
“How long have we been married?”
“Only a few days.”
I blink. Days?
“Days,” I repeat. “How did we meet? Have we known each other long?”
He shakes his head. “No. Our marriage was arranged by our Clans.”
Clans. I know that word. I can’t define it, but I know it means something like family.
“So I’ve only known you for a short time, then?”
“Aye.”
For some reason, that brings me relief. A moment later, I realize why.
“So we are strangers, then. Still getting to know each other?” I can pick up where I left off, I guess.
He smiles. Oh, wow, his green eyes are gorgeous, and there’s a dimple in his cheek. It’s hot. He’s hot. And he’s my husband. My heart flutters a little.
“Aye.”
“Do I have a family?” I whisper. “Are there people… somewhere else… that love me?” I can remember a sister, but that’s it.
His eyes darken, and his nostrils flare. I’ve made him angry. What did I say?
“Your family is here, now, Aileen.”
“Are you just saying that because you want me here, or do I really have no family?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw before he responds. “You have a father who gave you to me and a mother who enabled him. They are not good people, and I don’t wish you to have contact with them again.”
My nose tingles, and my throat tightens. I’m overcome with emotion about all of this. This is terrible. That’s harsh. I don’t know enough about this to even contradict him, so I leave it for now.
Your family is here, now.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Cormac, another question, please.”
He nods.
He’s my husband. I need this. I’m going to ask him.
“Will you… will you sit with me for a little while?”
It might be my imagination, but for one tiny sliver of time, I imagine his own eyes water. The next second, he blinks and he’s sober again, so stern and formidable I wonder what made me think that, and furthermore, what made me think being held by him would be nice.
He doesn’t speak, but stands, kicks off his shoes, and climbs into the bed beside me. I’m surrounded by piles of pillows and blankets. He moves them aside and comes closer to me, folding the blankets down and sliding beneath them. He leans back in the bed against the pile of pillows and lifts his arm.
“Come here, lass,” he says in a soft, gentle voice that makes my eyes prick with tears. Why am I so emotional? Is it foreign to me to be treated with kindness?
“I don’t like being like this,” I tell him.
“Like what?”
“All… emotional. It feels weak.”
“When people are under trauma, they sometimes need a little help is all,” he says. “Doesn’t make you weak.”
“Something tells me if you got conked in the head and knocked out and woke up not remembering who you were or how you got there, you wouldn’t go all teary-eyed. You’d probably come up with your fists raised.”
He chuckles. “Aye.”
I slide under his arm and lay my head on his chest. My eyes flutter closed, and I breathe in deeply, before I let my breath out again. I like his strong, masculine scent. The coolness of his t-shirt against my cheek. The firm expanse of his chest. The way his arms encircle me and he holds me tight.
I listen to the steady beat of his heart in the stillness. Thump. Thump. Thump.
The lump in my throat dissolves, and I feel warm, wet tears leak onto his shirt.
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” I say. I hate that I am. “I don’t want to. I want to be the strong lass you say I am.”
“Hush, sweetheart,” he says. “Crying doesn’t weaken you. Sebastian said this might happen.”
“Did he?”
“Aye. Says amnesia and trauma sometimes trigger emotions. But don’t fear that, Aileen. Just let it out, lass. I don’t think any less of you for havin’ emotions. Cry it out, if you must. Might even make things a bit better.”
Is he just pretending to be sweet? Am I supposed to like him? Because I do, and I’m not sure if I should.
I don’t try to check the tears, but let them flow freely. I want to know who I am. Who he is. Where we go from here. I hate that I have a family that doesn’t like me, but I’m grateful I have a home here. And I’ll remember who I am. I will.
After a few minutes, there comes a sort of peace. He doesn’t speak, but just holds me in the silence. I push myself up, one hand on his chest to look into his eyes. He reaches out and brushes a tear off my cheek with the pad of his thumb, then laces his fingers through my hair to the back of my head.