Page 115 of Duke of Iron
He stopped at a bench and gestured for her to sit. She did, folding her hands in her lap.
He sat beside her, careful not to touch.
Neither spoke for what felt like a small eternity.
Finally, Logan said, “I owe you an explanation.”
She stared straight ahead. “You owe me nothing.”
He shook his head. “I do. I should have told you sooner, but I did not know how.”
She waited.
He took a deep breath. “My father was not a good man. He was not the worst—there were worse—but he was… hard. I thought if I could be harder, I could survive him. I thought if I felt nothing, I could not be hurt.”
She listened, her hands knotting together. She had never heard him speak this way.
“He blamed me for my mother’s death,” Logan said. “She died giving birth to me. He never forgave me for that. Not once. Not even in the smallest way.”
May’s heart gave a violent lurch.
“He made me promise, when I was very young, that I would be the last. That no one would ever die for my sake again. That I would never… make the same mistake.”
May stared at the flower beds, the shapes blurring together. “That is not your fault,” she whispered.
“I know it isn’t,” he said. “But it feels like it, all the same. Every time I want something or need someone, I remember what it cost. And I pull back, because that is safer than hurting anyone else.”
He looked at her, and for once, did not look away.
“I thought I could keep you at a distance,” he said. “I thought if I were careful, I would never become like him. But I am not careful. Not with you. I think about you all the time, May. I wake up and want to tell you things, to hear your voice, to know what you are thinking. You have ruined me for being alone.”
May’s lips parted. She wanted to speak, but nothing came out.
He pressed on. “When I saw you with the baby, I thought—this is what I have been missing. This is what I want. I want a house full of laughter, and light, and you. And when you left, it felt as if the whole world had vanished. Like I was the only person left in it.”
May set her hand on the bench to steady herself. “Then why did you say you were glad? When I thought I might be—” She broke off, unable to finish.
He turned to her, his voice rough. “Because I was terrified. Because for one second, I thought you would leave, and I realized I could not survive it. Not again.”
She shook her head. “You said you did not want a child. That your line ended with you.”
“That was the promise of a foolish boy,” he said, “not the wish of a man who has fallen in love for the first time.”
He reached out, but stopped just short of touching her.
“I love you,” he said. “I think I always have. I was just too stupid to say it.”
May’s vision blurred, and this time she did not try to stop the tears.
He did not reach for her, but sat perfectly still, waiting.
“I cannot believe you,” she said, but her voice trembled. “I want to, but I cannot.”
He nodded, as if he’d expected this.
She looked at the garden, the world coming back into focus. “What if you change your mind? What if you decide you are like him, after all?”
He shook his head. “I have already decided not to be like him. If I must become someone else entirely, I would rather it be the man who fills this house with laughter and too many children and too many books. And you.”
