Page 41 of The Bonds We Break
“Did I say anything untrue?”
King narrows his gaze and then tugs his hand through his hair. “Don’t try and mess with my head. I’m the one who controls what’s happening here.”
Being a therapist, I try to remain an objective observer of what is happening in my clients’ lives. Occasionally, I allow myself to step into the circumstances they face, to dig into what their true feelings might be. I know King is not my client. I’m not his therapist. But this is a man whose world has been shaken. Not just by my brother, but by a series of betrayals over months. This isn’t about Track and Tessa. Or even me and Ryker.
“I understand. Why is that so important to you?” I’m curious about where the control impulse comes from.
“Why did you talk about fucking gardens?”
I look outside the cabin and let the watery sun heat my face. “Because I miss mine. Because that one out there is crying out for some preparation before the worst of winter hits. Because soil on your hands and the feeling of a good day’s work mean something to me.” I turn back to him. “Why does it bother you so much that I like them?”
He shrugs. “I don’t give a shit one way or another. Stop the mind games. Go get back on that bed and show me how grateful you are I didn’t kill him. And make it good, so I don’t change my mind.”
King needs a human who won’t let him down. He needs connections that he doesn’t need to doubt. So I rise from the chair and walk to the bedroom.
His footsteps thud behind me as he follows. I hear the whisper of his belt as he pulls it from the denim, and I have a momentary flashback. The sound reminds me of my father the night he used his to beat Ryker.
I shiver for a moment, then ground myself back in this cottage. I spread my socked toes and press them firmly into the wooden floor. I breathe deeply as I focus on bringing myself back to this moment. Some memories are better left in the past.
We get to the bedroom, and King glares. Instead of stripping as he expects, I take his hands.
“Why aren’t you getting naked?” he asks.
“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”
“Not now, duchess.”
He reaches for the hem of my hoodie, but I grab his hands and rub his knuckles. “Henry IV, Part 2.”
“I didn’t ask.” King huffs. “If you don’t want me to send the instruction to kill that motherfucker in his tropical garden, you’ll do what I want.”
I shake my head. “Sometimes what we want is not what we need.”
“If this is another lecture about vengeful kings, I’m going to lose my shit.”
I step up onto my toes to push the hair back from his forehead so I can see his eyes. “The play’s about a king with the weight of the world on his shoulders, symbolized by the crown he wears.” I keep my words soft. “War is approaching, a time of tremendous stress and preparation, and he can’t sleep. And he’s envious of those who can.” I lead him to the bed and encourage him to sit on the end of it.
I climb on the bed and kneel behind him. I smooth his shirt over his shoulders, then knead into tense muscles that are harder than iron rods.
For a moment, King resists. He sits tall. And then ... his shoulders sag and his head drops forward.
“You wear a heavy mantle, Uther. Whether it’s yours by choice or you inherited it makes no difference to its weight. And the truth is, you need to find a way to separate the job you do from the man you are. You need to find a way to create space where you aren’t the club.”
I feel his shoulders lift as he huffs. “Stop deflecting from sex.”
“Stop deflecting from difficult emotions.” I place my arms over his shoulders and my lips next to his ear. “If I thought for one millisecond that sex is what you really needed right now, I’d lie down for you. But the anger you’re carrying isn’t healthy, and believe it or not, I care.”
“Why?” He turns his head, placing his lips near mine. “Because of your job?”
I give my head a fraction of a shake. “No. Because when I see hurt, I respond to it.”
He grins slyly. “I’m not hurt.”
I kiss the corner of his mouth sweetly. “Then you are a better human than me, because it would wound me dearly to feel betrayed by so many people I love.”
He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. “Shut up, duchess.” The words are weary and soft.
Returning to his shoulders, I dig in, feeling gnarly spots and circling them with my thumbs and knuckles in a bid to loosen the tension he’s carrying. “When you feel like talking about that, I’ll be here for you.”
