Page 278 of Legacy
Hard.
Her heat seeps into every crack.
Every fracture.
I shut my eyes and let her scent fill me, those cherries and something sweeter.
Mine.
The only thing in this world that still feels like mine.
“Come on,” she whispers, tugging gently at my hand. “Let’s sit.”
She leads me into the living room, her thumb brushing over the back of my hand like she’s tracing every unspoken thought.
We sink onto the couch, and she pulls me close without hesitation, tucking herself against my side like she belongs there.
Like she always has.
I let my head fall back, exhaling for what feels like the first time all day.
“I didn’t think I’d care this much,” I murmur, barely recognizing my own voice.
Her fingers trace absent lines across my chest.
“He was your father,” she says softly. “Of course you care.”
I nod. Slowly.
Then I say it—quiet, broken.
“He told me I was ready.”
She lifts her head. “What?”
I keep staring straight ahead.
“Months ago, after he was shot. In the hospital, when he woke up—he said it was the Armenians. And then he looked at me and said I was ready to handle the war.”
Silence stretches. Then her fingers curl tighter against my chest.
“He saw something in you,” she whispers. “He knew you could carry this.”
“I don’t want to be him,” I say.
And I don’t just mean how he led.
I mean every cold choice. Every burned bridge. Every piece of himself he gave up until there was nothing left.
“You won’t be.”
“I don’t want to fuck everything up.”
I don’t want to let you down.
I can’t lose you.
“You won’t,” she says again.
