Page 25 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
No wonder she ran. No wonder she looks at me sometimes like I'm a beautiful trap waiting to spring shut.
By the time Nya stirs, I've worked myself into a quiet fury—not at Brynn, but at whatever bastard came before me who taught her that caring was dangerous. At myself for moving too fast, for not seeing how fragile her trust still is. At the circumstances that put us both in positions where love feels like a luxury we can't afford.
"Dad?" Nya's voice is still thick with sleep, but clear. No wheeze, no struggle for breath. The one episode has been the only so far, which is honestly such an improvement from the city. "Is it time to help with the flowers?"
"Not yet, sweetheart." I smooth her dark hair back from her forehead, checking for fever out of habit. Her skin is cool and dry, her color good. "But soon."
She stretches like a cat, all knobby elbows and knees, then fixes me with those violet eyes that see too much. "You look sad."
Trust my daughter to cut straight to the heart of things. It's a gift that served her poorly in Kyrdonis, where surface pleasantries and careful lies governed every interaction, but here in Eryndral it feels like honesty. Like coming home.
"I'm fine," I tell her, but she tilts her head in that way that means she doesn't believe me for a second.
"Is it because of Brynn? Did you have a fight?"
The question hits like a physical blow. Not because she's wrong, but because she's right in ways I hadn't expected an eight-year-old to notice. "Why would you think that?"
"She didn't look at you when we left." Nya's matter-of-fact delivery makes my stomach clench. "She usually smiles at you, but she didn't seem happy."
Well, fuck. If Nya noticed, what else did people see? But when I think back to the evening, most of the crowd was focused on the music and dancing, caught up in their own conversations and celebrations. Still, the thought that my daughter witnessed Brynn's retreat makes shame crawl up my throat.
"Sometimes adults get confused about feelings," I say carefully. "It doesn't mean anyone did anything wrong."
"But you're not confused." It's not a question.
No. I'm not confused at all. I know exactly what I want—Brynn's laughter in my kitchen every morning, her sharp wit over dinner, her body warm against mine in the dark. I want to watch our daughters grow up together, want to give Nya the mother she never really had and Rhea the father who walked away. I want permanence and partnership and all the messy, beautiful complications that come with loving someone completely.
What confuses me is how to convince Brynn that I'm not going anywhere without pushing so hard I drive her away entirely.
"No," I tell Nya quietly. "I'm not confused."
She nods like this explains everything, then bounces out of bed with the resilience that only children possess. "Can we bring Brynn flowers? Maybe that would help."
The suggestion is so earnest, so sweetly hopeful, that it cracks something open in my chest. "Maybe, sweetheart. We'll see."
A few hours later,we're in the village center helping Veyra and a handful of other women arrange winter blooms for tomorrow's festival. The harpist has taken charge of the decoration efforts with the same quiet competence she brings to her music, directing the placement of blue-silver rirzedblossoms and pale yellow tiphe leaves with an artist's eye for balance and flow.
Brynn arrives with Rhea just as I'm using my magic to coax a particularly stubborn arrangement into perfect symmetry. She nods at me—polite, distant, like I'm any other acquaintance instead of the man who had her pressed against him under the stars two nights ago. The careful neutrality in her expression makes my jaw clench.
"The large arrangements go on either side of this area," Veyra instructs, her dark fingers deft as she weaves stems together. "And we'll need smaller ones for the food tables."
Rhea immediately dives into the work with characteristic enthusiasm, chattering to Nya about which flowers they should pick for their bouquet. Brynn settles on the opposite side of the circle from me, her attention focused entirely on the blossoms in her lap as if arranging winter flowers requires every ounce of her concentration.
She's doing it again—that careful distance, that deliberate avoidance of anything that might lead to actual conversation. Yesterday it was the same thing when I brought Nya by the shop to pick up more parchment. Brynn had been perfectly pleasant, had smiled at my daughter and accepted payment for the supplies, but she'd treated me like any other customer. No teasing about my tendency to buy too much ink, no lingering looks, no invitation to stay for tea.
It's driving me slowly insane.
"These need to be smaller," I say, gesturing to the arrangement Veyra just finished. With a subtle flex of magic, I coax the stems to contract slightly, tightening the overall shape. "For the food tables."
"Perfect." Veyra's approval is warm, but when I glance up, I catch Brynn watching my hands with an expression I can't quiteread. The moment our eyes meet, she looks away, color rising in her cheeks.
So she's not completely immune. That's something, at least.
I spend the next hour finding excuses to use my magic—adjusting stem lengths, encouraging blooms to open more fully, creating small sculptures of ice and snow for the children to admire. It's showy behavior, the kind of thing I'd normally avoid, but every time I work magic I feel Brynn's attention on me like a physical touch. Even when she's determinedly focused on her own work, I catch her stealing glances, see the way her breathing changes when I make the flowers dance or coax frost into intricate patterns on the fountain's edge.
She remembers the kiss too. Remembers what it felt like to want something, even if she's too scared to reach for it again.
When we break for lunch, I approach her with what I hope looks like casual confidence rather than desperation. She's packing away the flowers she and Rhea arranged, her movements brisk and efficient.
