Not after everything.
“You’re not safe here,” he whispered. “But I can take you somewhere safe.”
His eyes searched mine, then wandered to my lips. And for just a second, I thought he might kiss me.
His fingers crept along my cheek.
“Let me protect you.”
All I could think of was the dried blood on my hands.
CHAPTER TEN
I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Home. But it didn’t feel like home anymore. My heart was lodged in my throat, my fingers trembling at my sides.
“Kera?” my mother said. “You’re late, my dove. Where’s your broth—”
She broke off when her eyes landed on me. Red eyes. Flushed cheeks. Shaking hands. I must have looked like a wreck.
My mouth opened, then closed again, and I swallowed, the words stuck in my throat. And then—before I could stop them—they spilled out.
“He’s…dead.”
“Don’t say such things.” Her laugh was quick, brittle, her hands brushing against her skirt like she could sweep the words away. “That isn’t funny, Kera.”
I didn’t move.
Her eyes dropped to my hands, and froze. Then she pushed past me, stumbling into the yard as her eyes darted wildly, searching the road, the corners of the house, even the garden rows as if he might be hiding among the crops.
“EINAR!” she screamed, her voice splitting the air.
But no one answered.
She staggered into the middle of the field, past the low potato plants and neat rows of beans, her skirt catching on the earth. Then her knees gave out, and she collapsed between the furrows, grasping at the soil.
I ran after her, and fell to my knees beside her. She didn’t even look at me, only sobbed his name again and again. By then my father had come running too, his heavy steps pounding across the ground.
“What’s happened?” he asked as he took in the shattered shell of a woman that was my mother.
“They shot him,” I whimpered.
“What?” My father’s voice was tight, low, like he didn’t trust his own ears. His eyes locked on mine, unreadable, unblinking. “Kera. What did you say?”
“Einar is dead. They shot him,” I said. “They left him by the red creek.”
“Who?” he breathed.
“The alley, by the butcher,” I said, not answering the question.
“Who shot him?” he roared, the sound tearing through the still summer air.
“I don’t know their names,” I stammered. “But Aran was there. I saw him. And he—he didn’t stop them.”
“Aran.” He spat the name like it burned his tongue. Then he tore through the nearest shed and emerged with an axe in his hand, sunlight flashing off the blade. And without looking at either of us, hewalked on. Past the field, past the road, straight toward the village. His back unbending. His steps unshaken.
I’d never seen fury in the flesh before.
“No,” my mother sobbed, shaking her head violently. “No, no, no, he’s fine, he’s fine, you’ve made a mistake, you must have—it can’t—it can’t be him—he was just here—”
