Page 108 of Sinful
"Helle." His voice is gentle but firm. "I've known you your whole life. Watched you grow from a baby who wouldn't stop crying to a little girl who climbed trees higher than her sister dared to a teenager who could outride boys twice her size. You're not fine."
My fake smile crumbles.
"The Nomad," he says. "Bravos. He left this morning."
"Yeah."
"He's a good man."
The words make tears burn behind my eyes. "I know."
"So, why are you here and he's in Texas?"
The question catches me off guard. I blink, trying to process. "Because you need me here."
"I'm fine." He gestures to himself with his remaining hand—the right one, thank God, because he's right-handed and at least Los Coyotes left him that. "Your mother's here. Elfe's here. Doc says I can go home in a week if things keep going well. Hell, I'm eating solid food and making jokes. That's basically a full recovery in my book."
"Dad—"
"Helle. Listen to me." He reaches for my hand, and I take it, feeling the calluses on his palm, the strength still there despite everything. "I'm your father. I knowwhen you're sacrificing yourself for someone else. You've been doing it your whole life—staying small so Elfe could be big, running away so we wouldn't have to look at our failure, working shit jobs under fake names so we wouldn't be ashamed." His voice cracks. "And I'm telling you to stop. Stop sacrificing. Stop punishing yourself."
"But you almost died?—"
"Because of Los Coyotes. Not because of you." His grip tightens. "If you want to go to him, go. Don't wait on my account. Don't use me as an excuse to be afraid."
The words hit like a slap.
"I'm not afraid," I say automatically.
He gives me a look—the one that says he knows I'm lying, has always known when I'm lying, will always know.
"Okay," I admit quietly. "Maybe I'm terrified."
"Of what?"
"Of—" The words stick. "Of losing him. Of building something and watching it burn. Of being happy and having it ripped away."
"So, you'd rather not have it at all? Rather stay here, safe and miserable, than go to Texas and risk being happy?"
When he puts it like that, it sounds stupid.
"What if he dies in the attack?" The question I've been avoiding. "What if I go to him and in five days he's gone and I'm alone again?"
Dad's quiet for a long moment. "Then you'll grieve. You'll hurt. You'll probably want to die too." His voice isrough with memory—probably thinking about the weeks he spent being tortured, wondering if he'd ever see Mom again. "But at least you'll have loved him. At least you'll have tried. That's more than most people get."
"That's not very comforting."
"It's not supposed to be. Love isn't comfortable. It's terrifying and messy and it makes you vulnerable in ways nothing else can." He squeezes my hand again. "But it's also the best thing we've got. So, don't waste it being afraid."
I'm crying now—silent tears that I can't stop.
Mom moves from her chair, sits on the edge of the bed, and puts her arm around my shoulders.
"I’m alive, kid," Dad continues. "The truth is I’ll be driving your mother crazy with my recovery demands in no time. You should go. Go follow that Nomad, ‘cause the Gods know you want to. That man followed you into hell. Go build something good. Something that lasts. You hear me?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Promise me."
