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“What?”
“I know you did it to Kai and Ezra when they were ready. NowI’mready.”
“Excuse me? You guys talk about me?”
“To a certain extent. Ezra definitely didn’t deign to mention that you guys confessed your love for each other, but I understand why.” Nic moves until he’s sitting next to me on the bed, carefully adjusting me until I’m curled into his side. I settle in without thought, a sort of calmness washing over me at his affections.
“Why do you want me to read you?”
“So you can understand me like you understand the others. I know you’re tired, but I promise I’ll make it easy on you.” He strokes my hair without thought, his other arm curling me tighter to his side.
“Do you know what you’re asking?”
“I do.” I don’t bring attention to the stiffness of his frame, or the rapid beat of his heart beneath my head. If a man like Nic says he’s ready for something, then he is, regardless of his physical reactions.
I know this won’t be easy for either of us, no matter what he says. There’s a reason he is the way he is. Everyone has a past that shaped them. Some were molded from malleable clay, soft and gentle. Others were chiseled from granite, beaten and sharpened, sanded and worn down.
Then there are people like me. Like Kai and Ezra. Like Nic.
Ones whose only comparison is that of a big boom. A nuclear explosion, where every cell and inch of their beings were eviscerated until there was nothing left. Only to be forced to recreate themselves, crafted from blood and suffering, rising from catastrophe and blight to become whatever they need to be.
Survivors.
“Okay.” I wrap my hand up around his neck, my thumb stroking over his pulse as I breathe deeply in preparation.
“Whenever you’re ready,mi vida.” He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. “A través de la guerra encontraré la paz.”
* * *
“Emilio confirmed it. They took her.” An extremely young Nic, maybe about seven, hides in a closet, his face pressed to a crack in the door as he listens to the men on the other side of it.
“¡Mierda!” The deep voice is swathed in fury, a pound of a fist meeting wood making Nic jump. The movement knocks something to the side behind him and the room outside of the closet goes silent for a moment before the voice speaks again. “Si es una guerra lo que quieren, entonces es una guerra lo que obtendrán. You know what to do.”
Footsteps sound out, leaving the room followed by the soft click of the door as Nic tries to back further into the darkness. There’s a clinking of glass settling on a wooden surface as a shadow passes the crack, blocking out the light for a moment before it moves away without pausing.
“Nicolás, I know you’re in there.” The deep voice lets out a sigh of exhaustion as Nic slowly pushes open the closet door and steps out into the light. The room is an ornate, expensive study decorated in rich tones and dark wood, but the man sitting at the lavish desk commands the attention from whoever might enter his orbit.
The man appears a little older than Nic is in the present, his black hair streaked with gray in a sophisticated way. His suit is slightly ruffled, his tie missing, hanging on the back of his leather chair as if he just removed it. His dark eyes note Nic’s presence before his once tight and angry features crinkle with love and affection. He offers a small grin to the boy and waves his hand to the seat across from his desk.
“Considering you’ve already decided to disobey your parents and get out of bed, you might as well sit for a moment.”
“Papá, is there really going to be a war?” Nic finally speaks for the first time. At his soft question, his father’s eyes scan his face for a moment before he leans back in his seat, grabbing a crystal glass filled with bronze liquid and ice along the way.
“You are too young to worry over such things.”
“I am next in line as head of this family. I should start learning now. If there’s going to be a war, I want to know!” Nic’s voice is nothing but stubborn resolve, his small arms crossing over his chest as he raises his chin.
“La mente de un hombre, pero aún tan joven.” His father absently murmurs the words as he shifts forward, taking a large swig of his glass before setting it aside and steepling his hands in front of him. “And if we are? Are you going to be fighting in it, guerreropequeño? Will you be ready to lay down your life for your cousins, your aunts…para mamá?”
Young Nic’s jaw quivers as his father pulls a gun from a drawer beside him, but he sits straight in his chair without squirming, his eyes snapping back to his father's. “Si. I will do what I must for the women in our family.”
His father sets the handgun on the desk and slides it across the surface, the scraping sending a shiver down Nic’s small frame. “Take it,hijo.”
He does. His small hands shake as he holds the pistol in his lap, his head hanging as he stares at the cold, black metal surface.
“Do you remember how to use it?”
“Yes.”
