“Or those who willingly walked to their deaths, fearing what they were capable of destroying.”
I’m barely breathing now. The twist in the conversation — from playful banter about Mirth reading me to sleep, to the weariness that comes from holding, holding tightly, to immense power— is challenging what little equilibrium I have around Mirth. Mirth, who normally holds her power so tightly that she seems without any at all.
“Are you scared of me, Lord Hereford?”
Not realizing that my gaze has settled on her hand atop the books, I lock my gaze to Mirth’s, holding her blazing purple eyes steadily.
This question — playfully and lightly posed — is perhaps the most important thing she’s asked of me.
I cannot equivocate. I cannot wait for the proper moment to address this.
“I’m not scared of you, Mirth. I belong to you. I was put on this earth to balance you. To help you hold the intersection point.”
She holds my gaze, all her power once again tightly tucked away. But she doesn’t otherwise respond.
I lean forward, deliberate intent threading through every one of my words. “I think … I’ve been researching this as well, and I’ve questioned the others, as much as they’re willing to articulate themselves.” I can’t stop from twisting my lips at recalling just how stubborn Bolan is, specifically. And Sully isn’t much better. “And I believe that whether or not we were all formally bonded, or even acknowledged the possibility of a bond between us, that Armin’s death created … a fissure. A chasm that, in order to continue forward, to continue to … live, we needed to come together to try to heal.”
Mirth blinks back a flush of emotion.
“I … I’m so sorry that it took Armin’s death for us to rally, to find each other. To find you.”
“You believe, then. In soul-bound mates. That the universe has … nudged us together because we lost Armin?”
Some emotion all but aches at the heart of Mirth’s question. It isn’t grief, though. And with that unknown still hanging between us — even as I sense it’s the same thing, or at least part of the thing, that drove her away from us at Lake Thun — I don’t know how to fix it. Not head-on, at least.
I’m still a little overcome, overwhelmed about it all myself. Burying myself in paperwork has been my only relief for days.
“My parents were soul bound,” I say. “Just the two of them. They … never needed anyone else to complete their bond group. Or maybe there weren’t any more bonds for them.”
“Same with my father,” Mirth says. “Before his soul-bound mate and their child died. Years before he had Armin and me, before he took chosen mates, because …”
“The intersection point,” I say, tipping my chin toward the pile of books.
“Mostly, yes. I think.”
“You’ll explain that to me more? Yes?”
“Not now, but yes.”
I nod agreeably, but only because I think the topic of the nascent connection between us and the others is more important. I suspect it’s also the cause of the distance Mirth has placed between us.
This is why I wanted to do this all properly, perfectly timed. Then Sully and Bolan went running after Mirth, and —
I clear my throat. “My mother lasted two years after my father’s death. It’s not that they didn’t both love me. Want me. But … I think … I think she held him here, on this plane, for longer … longer than she should have. The pain he —”
I take a breath. I haven’t really acknowledged that truth out loud before, not allowed myself to truly articulate it in my own head. “She burned through her own essence, her life force, to do so. My father sent her away on a spa vacation with her sisters the weekend he summoned me out to the estate. Summoned me to make me Lord Hereford. But he … needed help at that point. Needed help to transition to the next plane of existence. And my mother wouldn’t help him.”
Mirth gasps, quietly pained. Then she leans closer, offering her hand.
I take it. I take the comfort, though I know it should be the other way around. That my grief is old and tired while hers is still fresh. But the chance to be skin-to-skin …
“Maybe she couldn’t do it,” Mirth says, her eyes shining. “Maybe the bond between a brother and sister could never compare … but I don’t think I could ever have helped Armin leave me. I don’t think I could have been strong enough to let him go. Not even if he was in pain …” Renewed tears roll downher creamy cheeks. “I think maybe … maybe he was already in pain, and I wasn’t enough —”
She shakes her head, still gripping my hand as she dashes the tears off her face with her free hand. “We’re talking about you.”
“We’re talking about us,” I say, my chest once again aching with our combined grief. Mirth must be an empath. Or it’s the fundamental nature of the bond we share, as tentative as it currently is.
“Yes. Okay.” She takes a shuddery breath and pulls one of those perfect-princess smiles out to shine on me. “Your mother?”
