Page 85 of Saxon

"Saxon." I keep my voice soft and quiet. "Hey."

He shakes his head. "Don't—don't look at me. Go away."

"Nice try, sweetheart, but I don't think so." I clasp my hands against the backs of his and guide his hands to my cheeks. They tremble there. "I'm here."

He just shakes his head. Growls in his chest, shutting his eyes even tighter. "No, no, no," he snarls, voice guttural, broken.

Ah. I see, now. A single diamond glitters at the corner of his eye, shimmers, and slides down.

I lift up on my toes and pull him down to me—stiffly, like a hundred-year-old oak begrudgingly swaying in a strong wind, he allows me to pull him down. I kiss his cheek. Taste salt.

"It's okay, Saxon," I whisper.

"Fucking isn't."

"I say it fucking is." I brush my thumb over the salt smear left by my kiss. "Open your eyes for me, baby. Please. Show me those big beautiful greens. Please?"

Another stubborn headshake.

"Then talk to me."

"Said too fucking much already."

"I thought you trusted me." A low blow, and I know it—I know he trusts me. I know that's not what it is.

"I do."

"Then open your eyes. Let me see you."

"Why?" he growls. "So you can see what a weak ass bitch I am?"

I kiss his other cheek, where another diamond glitters. "I'm not him."

This gets his attention. "I know."

"Do you?" Kiss his cheek, the first side again. The other. "I'm not sure you do."

"I hear him." His voice is barely a whisper. "I fucking—I hear his goddamn voice."

"What's the old dead fuckin' bastard saying?"

"Weak," he whispers. "Weak-ass bitch. Fucking pussy. I'll give you something to cry about, you little bitch. I'm not raising sensitive little fucking crybabies. I'm raising real men. Warriors."

"Followed by a beating, I presume."

"Obviously."

"So, baby, LOOK…AT…ME."

His head tips down, and his eyes crack open, showing slivers of Kelly green. "What."

"Can you tell me something?"

"Hmm?"

"What's it mean to be brave?"

He blinks. Not what he was expecting. "Um."