Page 31 of Bound By Darkness

Ivan opened his mouth, but stopped as Gwen pointed her finger to the door. “Out.”

He balked. “I’m your son.”

“Out,” she repeated. “I haven’t had female companionship since raising you.”

“Máthair, really?—”

“Out.”

Ivan narrowed his gaze, but gave up when Gwen gave the same look back. He grabbed an apple from the bowl sitting at the back of the counter before leaving.

“Boys,” she muttered before handing me a spoon. “We’ve got work to do.”

Smiling, I grabbed the utensil, whorls etched into the wood. “Which is what?”

“Berry tarts. They won’t make themselves.” She dumped flour into the bowl with a glass cup.

“What happened to making apple tarts?”

She pointed to the door. “He ate the last one.”

“But you picked those this morning.”

“He insisted on eating them all. There’s going to be more next season.”

Next season. Where would I be next season?

Gwen smiled softly. “You know, you’re more than welcome to come back. It’s occasionally lonely here, and I could use another hand in the kitchen.”

“Tempting, but I want to explore like my father did.”

“Was he a traveler?”

“He was a merchant,” I corrected. “He traveled frequently. He didn’t stay in one place long since he was a human. It wasn’t safe for him.”

Gwen nodded as she plopped in a yellow stick. “Must have been tough growing up.”

“It was, but ithad its perks. He’d come home with new stories and merchandise he’d find from different parts of Cethales.”

“He must have been an amazing man.”

“Yeah.”

“Wounds can still be fresh for a long time,” she said after a long pause. “My late husband used to say destiny clung to the privileged while the rest of us dealt with fate. The older I age, the more I find the nonsense he sprouted true.”

Kneading the dough with my hands, I jerked my chin toward the living room. “Are those his swords out there?”

“Yes. He used to be a fighter.” She smiled, the memory pooling in her eyes. “We met on the battlefield as I tended to him as his nurse. It was love at first sight. We wedded a year later.”

“What happened?” I asked gently, my fingers spreading the dough across the counter.

“He caught an illness and passed away in his sleep.” She cut out shapes from the dough and placed them gently on a parchment-lined tray. “Ivan took it the hardest. Isaiash practically raised him and taught him everything he knew. Those two were inseparable.”

Pressing a few berries into the dough, she wrapped them and set them on the tray. “The last three years have been hard on him since his passing. He’s not the same,” she whispered. “I can tell in his eyes. Call it a mother’s intuition, but light hasn’t touched there or here”—she pointed to her heart—“in a long time. He’s hurting, and I don’t know what to do.”

I helped her cut out shapes while she pressed the sweet berry mixture into the dough. “I’m sorry about your husband. I bet it was tough on both of you.”

“It still is,” she added. “I hate how Ivan goes on these missions. He refuses to tell me what he does or where he goes, but I see the aftermath.”

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