want to argue with Brandon, but I know mentioning Gage’s name will do nothing to prevent the war. More likely, it will only anger Brandon.
He doesn’t know Gage like I do, although I admit, I do not know Gage well either.
I only know that Gage had the opportunity to harm me. He did not harm me, and further, was fiercely protective, thrusting me behind his back when Brandon stormed toward us. The two men do not like each other well. They hate each other, truth be told. That fool fantasy where they both loved me seems twice as foolish on reflection.
“Gage is not a bad man,” I say quietly.
Brandon’s jaw tightens. “Do not mention his fucking name.”
“He is not a monster, and I won’t let you say that he is.” I feel my temper rising, clashing with the sorrow, and mashing it all up into a great eruption of distress. “If these men from his clan hurt a lass, then they did it without his permission.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Brandon says. “He is not the king of his clan. He is not even the firstborn son. He is nothing, and less than nothing if he stands by and watches while his clansmen commit such acts.”
He heaves a great breath and lets it out on a sigh. “I do not want to quarrel with you, Jessa, not tonight and not now. It is not my decision that we war. I am but a Beta and do not even sit at Jack’s table. I am bound to Fen, have been since I was but a pup. For all that, I would argue with them if I thought their actions were wrong. The Lyon clan has lost its way. I will not sit by idle. Not after what I witnessed.”
His sadness and conviction bring a tightness to my chest. No matter what I think of Gage, men of his clan hurt a lass. I am sorry that Brandon had to witness such a thing, but heartened that he was there to stop it. I step closer to him, and placing my arms around his neck, press my nose into the crook of his shoulder. His scent, rich and spicy, soothes me. “I am sorry,” I say. “Sorry that it has come to this. You are right. They have lost their way.”
I feel the tension leave his body. He purrs.
But it only soothes me a little bit, for tomorrow will bring war.
When I slip back into the cottage, I find my parents talking quietly at the table. My sibling brats are in bed, except for my younger brother Amos, who will likely still be out with his friends.
They don’t ask what is wrong with me as I get ready for bed. Perhaps they similarly know about the men leaving tomorrow. I expect that they must do.
I wash up, change into my nightgown, and head for my bedding nook. Slipping inside the cool sheets, I pull the curtain closed. I lay awake for a long time, listening to the rumble of my parent’s conversation. The lights go out, quietness descends, and still, I cannot sleep.
Tossing and turning, my mind wallows in turmoil. My thoughts are like pebbles upon the loch shore, sifting and clashing and shifting again.
It is still dark behind my bedding nook curtain when I rise from my bed. Brandon said he was leaving early, but I might still catch him before he goes.
As I carefully draw my curtain back, I find my father is up, supping a brew as he throws the shutters open to let the weak morning light in.
He does a double-take as he sees me. I must look terrible, face ravaged by tears and worry, and hair a knotty mess. His face softens. Without a word, he puts his cup of brew on the counter and gathers me into his arms. “There, lass,” he says. “They will be back afore you know it.”
It has been a few years since I was cuddled by my papa, and it feels so nice.
“I’m so worried,” I say. “I feel sick with it. And Brandon won’t rut me until after because he is worried he’s going to die!” He didn’t actually say this, but I’m convinced it’s the reason.
My father chuckles softly. Drawing me away so he can see my face, he brushes the fresh tears away with the pad of his thumbs. “Ah, lass. Not sure your pa is the best person for this discussion. I was fit to nail the whelp to