Page 135 of Heimlock

This moment reminds me of the night of the-murder-we-won’t-be-repeating, where he said sex has become twisted in his mind. Now it makes more sense. I’ll never fault him for however his trauma influenced his choices.

Slipping the hoodie on and zipping it up, I say, “I wish my one-night stands had been this courteous.”

He exhales in relief. “Yes, well, I tried.”

Ripping the tag off, I place it in his hand. “You’re donating those jackets tomorrow.”

“Alright,” he agrees quickly, most likely relieved I’m not pissed off. We still aren’t ‘officially’ in a relationship, but we’ve both made it clear in other ways that there’s no one else welcome to be a part of the picture. As long as I know he isn’t going elsewhere for the sex we aren’t having, I’m completely fine with waiting.

And there is nothing about Trinte that would make me believe he’d consider doing that. He’s far too obsessed with me.

Grinning at the thought, I say, “Ready?”

His expression darkens. “You’re really not going to tell me?”

Hopping up, I grab his cheeks and yank him down, smooshing his face against mine. “You’re going to trust me, and you’re going to like it.”

“Debatable,” he murmurs, but kisses me deeply before I let him go.

I open the front door. “Let’s go, handsome. Time for your surprise.”

Rolling his eyes, Trinte mutters. “Goody.”

***

“We’re burning dolls?” Trinte says, looking around the group of people holding paper mache dolls of different sizes and features. Some are general shapes; others resemble creatures like Orcs, Cyclops, Sprites, and even some Dragons in their full form.

We’re at a park where candles and lanterns offer a soft glow. Dozens of people, from all ages and walks of life, chatter as they prepare their dolls.

He follows me to the sign-up table. “Yep. It’s a process called Lyriquoi, which means ‘lighting the darkness.’ You buy a doll, write down things you want to be free of, or what you hope for. Together, we’ll light our dolls on fire to release it all to the goddesses.”

“That’s beautiful,” he says, albeit begrudgingly. He’s still sour about making this a surprise.

Linking my arm with his, I beam. “It is! I did this with Orliana a few years ago, and I feel like it helped. Maybe it’ll help you?”

Trinte glances down at me with a small smile. “Only one way to find out.”

After we pay for our dolls, we walk over to the shelves offering different options. I make an immediate beeline for a pink heart so big, my arms can barely hold it. Trinte eyes each option carefully, face twisted in thought. When he stops in front of a blue dragon, I know he’s made his choice.

He picks it up by the wing, inspects it, then looks at me. “Now what?”

I wave for him to follow me. “Now we write on them.”

Tables and chairs are provided for the crowd of people writing on their dolls. We sit across from one another and I hand him a black marker.

He takes it, staring at his dragon. Giving him space to contemplate, I scribble different things on my heart; Huracio’s name; different words like fear, anger, and shame; my mother’s name; Trinte’s father’s name. I write hopes, like opening my own self-defense gym and finally finding the magic I’ve been seeking my whole life.

When I’m done, he’s still staring at his, having not written a word. Recapping my marker, I murmur, “You don’t have to write anything if you don’t want to.”

That bright blue eye shimmers with tears. “I don’t know where to begin.”

Smiling, I show him my paper mache heart where I wrote his father’s name. “You can start by putting down some names like this.”

This actually doesn’t appear to help as he angrily wipes away an escaped tear. Tossing the marker onto the table, he says, “I don’t see how burning random words will do anything, Kyrielle.”

His reticence is unsurprising. Trinte clearly wants to be free of his trauma, but I think deep down, he’s afraid of knowing who he is beyond it.

Lowering my voice further, to avoid drawing attention, I say, “Sometimes, symbolism can be a powerful thing, Trinte.” I pluck at the sleeve of the jacket I will not be keeping. “This jacket, and the seven others in your closet, are symbols of a life you’ve lived. Donating them means the end and beginning of something, right?”