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The four men take their time dismounting from their horses. Their laughter continues to echo through the forest. They slowly pull the dead bear off, but none of them approaches the boy or checks his injuries. They don’t even look at him.
My heart breaks for this child. His face still bleeds, and his cries are a stark contrast to the laughter. How can any man, even a Fall Fae, be this heartless?
I don’t know if I feel relieved exactly when one of the men comes back and approaches the child. The large red-haired man pulls the boy to his feet and says, “Suck it up, son, and be a man. A future king needs to be tough,” his words are followed by more laughter.
My blood starts to boil.How can he treat his own son like this? Where is his empathy? Where is there even a flicker of love for this child?
Three men grab different parts of the bear and haul it away while another gathers wood to build a bonfire. They sit by the fire and talk about the hunt, glancing at the child curled up behind them, and laugh more, talking about how fast their bear had taken the bait, if only their bait had been quicker. The urge to stab every last one of them surges through me. Instead, I stare at the boy.
He’s lying there, holding his face. His cries now turned to whimpers. He couldn’t be more than six years old with the roundness of a baby’s face, and it breaks my heart. He looks up and makes eye contact with me. His face ages before my eyes,heages before my eyes, until Forrest sits there with that jagged scar going down his face.
His father. The men. They all fade away, and it’s just him and the fire. His expression broken, his body curled around himself as if it alone could protect him from the world.
Without a thought, I run to him and kneel down next to him. He’s crying, his shoulders shaking as he hides his face in his arms, and my heart shatters into a million pieces. The big, brave man is broken. As broken as the child was. I reach out for him, but I’m afraid to touch him.How do I heal this kind of wound?
His voice comes, low and filled with pain. “I don’t want any of this. I just want to be a kid. I just want to feel safe.”
“You deserve that,” I say, tears stinging my eyes, my words thick with emotion.
His whole body shakes. “I don’t want this. I just want to be a kid. I just want to be safe.”
“Shhh, Forrest, I’m here, it’s okay.” I wrap myself around him, and feel him stiffen for the briefest moment, but I rub his back, I whisper comforting things to him, and I press myself against him. Knowing that the warmth from my body should be soothing. Knowing that he just needs to be sure he’s not alone.
“Cassia?” he whispers my name, and the shaking of his body slows.
“I’m here. I’m with you.”
“You didn’t leave me?” A shudder rolls through his body, and I feel the rapid rising and falling of his chest slowing.
“I’m here.” It’s all I can think to say.What else is there?
Is that how he got his scar?Part of me doesn’t understand how all of this is happening, and part of me doesn’t care. I just want to hold this man until all his pain washes away.
He turns in my arms, and his big hand runs over my hair as his gaze roams over my face. “You are. You’re back. You’re safe. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”
Placing my hands on his chest, I feel the rapid beating of his heart under my palm. “It’s okay, Forrest.”
His eyes are filled with unshed tears. He stares into my eyes, and it feels like he’s staring into my soul. “I will be good to you. I swear it. I don’t want my children to go through this. I just want them to grow up knowing they’re loved.” I think he means every word that he speaks.
I try to imagine a life with him and some adorable red-haired children. For the first time, I can see him being a loving and kind father. A father who spends quality time with his children, who teaches them life lessons with compassion and empathy. The vision brings a smile to my face.
“You’ll be a wonderful father,” I tell him.
His expression softens, some of the pain and desperation fading away. “I’ll try. Always.”
Unable to help myself, I trace his scar with my finger.
He shivers at my touch and shifts away. “It’s ugly.”
“It’s not.” I kiss him lightly next to his scar, then again, and again, making my way down his face.
His scar is just part of him. Another piece that helps explain the man who I’m betrothed to. Perhaps I shouldn’t have dismissed him quite so quickly.
I pull back and look into his eyes. They’re pleading with me to accept him. I look at his scar, wondering if he looks in the mirror every day and feels rage from the neglect he experienced.
“I’m sorry he hurt you,” my voice comes out no louder than a whisper. “But I like your scar, just like I like you. It just adds to your beauty.”
His eyes widen with shock, and then they fill with something else: a new-found openness or vulnerability. We both soften our gaze and smile.
