46. Killian

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

KILLIAN

I went to my office and worked like a zombie, unable to do anything else after long years of habit, but my heart wasn't in it.

My heart was with Hector.

Beautiful, clever, perfect Hector.

I could do most of my reports with my eyes closed, and though my handwriting might suffer for it, it would all end up essentially correct.

So that left me plenty of time to focus on Hector. On how I'd told him, what felt like years ago, but had only been a few months, that love was a children's story. That I didn't believe in any such silly thing. I wanted him, yes, but only that.

In retrospect, it wasn't just patronizing, telling a grown man that I was going to make his choices for him, because he didn't understand the political fallout that would inevitably come from them... it was plain old wrong.

And given how tight-lipped Hector had been on the subject since, he'd no doubt taken me at my word, and intended to go on that way.

The very idea made my stomach twist and writhe.

Or maybe it was that I'd forgotten to eat breakfast.

When I finished what I was working on, I went down to the kitchens and grabbed what they had on at the moment, some bread and some kind of stew. It wasn't terrible, but the bread was nothing like what they managed in Hawk lands—soft and fluffy, moist and just...

I stared at the dry slice in my hand, and it struck me as unjust, suddenly.

It had never bothered me before, but now...

Oh, it didn't bother me that the Hawk had better bread. No, it was that the cooks in our kitchens had to make do with the time they had, to feed as many people as possible. If they had more people, more time, there was no doubt in my mind they could produce food every bit as impressive as the Hawk Clan's bread or the Hummingbird's mead. Instead, we assigned as few people as possible to the kitchens, because every body was needed on the wall, defending our lives.

It was a dangerous line of thought, and one I'd never spent much time on before; dissatisfaction with our granted lot in life. But the Crane were more than martial prowess, damn it all. Our ancestors had been artists.

Maybe I wasn't more than a soldier, but the others should have that chance if they wanted it. The ability to paint or sculpt or garden or fucking cook what they wanted to.

I ended up staring at my food for rather longer than normal, but no one approached me. It was early for lunch, so there weren't many people in the dining hall, but also, those few who did come in gave me a wide berth. My expression must have been even more forbidding than usual, I supposed.

By the time I was finished, the stew had long since gone cold, but it was fine. I'd eaten worse food, under worse circumstances.

More important that I figure out how to deal with Hector.

He deserved someone like that asshole Duck, Nestor, smooth bastard that he was, with his gifts of wagons of lemons and oranges and other fruits. Or Brett, so soft and kind, despite his years on the wall. Hells, Orestes, soft and kind perhaps because of his years on the wall. He certainly hadn't learned that from his father. But I didn't think he'd learned it from me, either.

If he were still at my side, I'd have asked him where he'd learned it, so I could try to do the same.

He'd have laughed at me and told me something irreverent about how one didn't learn what came naturally, or something like that.

And that was probably it. I was made for this life: hard and cold and efficient. The world I wanted to make had no place in it for me. But that was fine, because it was a world that would nurture my people. No one else would ever have to be like me, and that was best for everyone.

And it had to start with Hector, who was the most important person I wanted to make the world better for.

Cleaning up my plate and leaving it for the dishwasher, I headed for the smithy. That was where he'd be. Where he had spent every free minute, working on his bolt throwers. Protecting my people— our people. Solving our biggest problems.

The smithy was exactly as it always was. A hive of work and noise and stifling heat worse than the hottest summer day. And in the middle of all that activity, there was Hector. Beautiful even covered with the grime and sweat of a day's work—maybe even more beautiful for it, in fact. Giving Abram his quiet, hesitant smile as he slid his hands into his pockets, then returning his gaze to the floor, where it stayed so often.

Too often.

Suddenly, what I'd come to do wasn't something I was looking for yet another reason to avoid. It was imperative. I didn't think I could spend another hour of my life without doing it. Couldn't keep breathing and thinking and not do it.

With more steely resolve than usual, I stalked over to the spot where Hector was standing and spun to stand in front of him. Reaching up, I took his face in both hands and looked deep into his soft, perfect brown eyes.

And I said it. The words I'd never thought would cross my lips in my entire life.

"I love you."

The smithy went unnaturally silent around us as the last word rang through the air with the finality of a hammer blow, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was him. Was Hector. So I said it again.

"I never thought I'd say this to anyone, but... but I love you."