Again he did nothing as she struck him, stamping down his old instincts. A proper beating was no less than he deserved, failing his family as spectacularly as he had. If she needed it she would have it.
"The dead do not mourn the living, Fae. They are beyond grief and hurt. I know it is a small comfort." Hardly a comfort at all, truth be told. If there were a way for him to turn back time so he could have been there, had a chance to save them or take their place, he would do it in an instant.
But such thoughts were no more than dreams, and he had reality to deal with. That reality being the loss of two of his family and the wrath of the one before him.
"I am sorry I have caused this pain, love. If there is a way for me to help mend it…if that is possible at all…" His voice failed him then and he took a shaky breath, his shoulders still trembling as he did his best to keep from falling to his knees and weeping.
She wanted to hit him. She wanted to reel her fist back again
and feel his nose crack beneath her strike, as though she could
translate physical pain into the hurt that had torn her apart for
almost ten years.
Her fingers flexed at the notion, and that was when she finally
noticed her right hand was soaking, and it was enough for her
to pull her attention, to raise her palm flat. The gash in her palm
was not deep, the bleeding making the wound seem worse than
it was, and she cast a scowl at the knife that lay behind her on
the ground. It shouldn't have made her feel better, but it did.
She hated healers; always had. But she had never denied her
father. But she would do so now as she turned on heel and
stalked into the estate (though not before retrieving the half
finished mabari and the whittling knife).
She didn't say a word, but that she left the door open and did
not slam it in his face would be the best invitation Malcolm could
hope to receive. She dared not invite him into her life with words;
not when she was still unsure she wanted him there.
