Page 18 of Veiled Yearning

I give him a wicked grin in return. “Maybe.”

7

Guilt

GAVRIL

Usually, I don’t mind traveling.

Alone, it’s an opportunity to focus solely on the road, letting my mind clear of everything else.

With a companion—usually Frederick or Larkin—our time is spent bouncing ideas off each other while discussing Sentinel business.

But with Chiara, it’s unnaturally quiet.

We’ve been on the road for over four hours and I don’t think she’s said more than a handful of sentences—I’m okay, I have everything, I don’t need to stop.

It’s not that she’s angry with me, at least, I don’t think she is.

But the Chiara of yesterday is definitely gone—her smiles and bursts of laughter have been replaced by tense features and a solemn silence. And I don’t like it. I want the other Chiara back, the one who helped make yesterday one of the best days I’ve had in years. Possibly decades.

Who am I kidding? I haven’t enjoyed myself like that since I was a human. And it’s all because of Chiara.

First, showing me those incredible tricks with the snow. Sharing a little about herself with me. Then a massive snowball fight, which I’ve never actually done before, only seen on TV. And it was fun. Dodging Chiara’s rainbow snowballs while flinging hastily packed ones back at her, diving behind trees for cover, laughing the entire time.

Then back inside to change into clothes that weren’t covered with snow, sitting by the crackling fire and just talking. Not about the Sentinels and Custodians, but about books and our favorite places to visit.

I learned about Chiara’s island off the coast of Maine, and how it’s her favorite place in the world. My heart hurt for her when she admitted, “I don’t go there now. Out in the water like that, I feel too exposed.”

As the sun set, we watched movies and opened a bottle of blood-laced wine that Chiara had stashed in the kitchen. We stayed up for hours, sitting side by side on the couch, occasionally making comments about whatever movie was on.

It was comfortable, spending time with Chiara. And when she finally said goodnight, heading off to her bedroom with a little wave, I was sorry to see the day end.

I wasn’t expecting to like her so much. We’ve met a handful of times before, but they were always brief interactions—passing through Maine with Frederick, or that terrible time when we rescued her from the factory in New York.

We never really spent time together. We never really talked. But now? I’m seeing there’s so much more to Chiara than I ever thought. Not just her beauty—though that’s irrefutable—but her quiet sense of humor, her strength, and her generosity.

I like her. Which makes it so much harder following through with this plan of bringing Chiara to work with the Sentinels. Before I got to know her, it was simple. Convince her to help us, guarantee her safety, and get her to Buffalo so she could get to work.

That was before I realized what this trip is costing her. That was before I saw how damn scared she is. How she’s still suffering from her captivity. How much that little house in the woods means to her.

Now that I know her better? I feel guilty.

Contrary to what some people might think, I don’t want to hurt anyone, especially a woman. That’s why I’m still haunted by what happened with Cait. It’s why I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it.

And I don’t want to hurt Chiara. But I am. And I don’t like myself very much for it.

There was a moment last night when I considered leaving without her. I thought, maybe we can do this without her.

But I really don’t think we can. Not just because Chiara is so much more powerful than I thought, but because I think if she stays by herself in Maine, the Custodians will eventually catch up to her. It’s not a vision; just a gut feeling that she needs our protection.

“How much further to your house?” Chiara’s voice is startling in the silence.

“About two hours.” We just passed Hillsborough, heading west across New Hampshire; the plan is to stop at my house in Manchester to pick up additional supplies before continuing our journey toward Buffalo.

“Oh.” She glances over at me, tearing her gaze from the snow-covered trees she’s been staring out the window at for the last hour. “Can we…” she trails off, turning to look at the trees again.

“What?” When she doesn’t answer right away, I ask again, “What, Chiara?”

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