A young doctor unexpectedly finds herself forced to indoctrinate into a paramilitary organization, where a stoic hero silently falls in love. Slowly, he earns her trust. The love between them burns away the darkness of the past and acts as a beacon...
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I carried Roslyn, holding tightly to her body and the comfort she brings from the darkness of my thoughts.
Thoughts suppressed by the day's commotion but deafening in the silence of night.
I placed her down on the bed, and she grasped the fabric of my shirt, bringing me with her. I let her comfort me, happy with the way she caged my head to her chest. I looped my arms around her waist, and the love in my heart swelled as her fingers danced with tender innocence across me.
The mention of a wedding made my heart soar with hope and longing for that moment to come to fruition. I can picture it – but when I do, a gaping hole looms.
Empty seats where our families should be.
In a perfect world, I would have the opportunity to tell her father how I feel for his daughter. I would promise to protect and cherish her and work endlessly to earn his approval to take her hand in marriage.
My brother would stand as my best man, and her brother would stand beside mine, along with Aldric and Arthur. My heart ached for Roslyn to feel the love I knew my mother would have for her. I would give everything I own to see Roslyn laughing with our mothers like she had laughed with Mrs. Sullivan tonight. I would give everything for Roslyn to feel her mother's love at least once more.
Longing burned in my veins to feel the love of mine.
I felt my throat tighten at my father's power to swindle joy from my life still.
The familiar weight of self-hatred filled my gut, and I wished over and over I wasn't his carbon copy – but I am – in both physicality and personality.
This would all be easier if I only remembered who he was as an addict.
But I don't. I have memories of who he was before. I idolized him. I thought the world of him and dreamed of being half of who he was.
He was a good man.
My mother clung to those memories, waiting for the man he was to return.
He never did, and it was the death of her.
The grief of my grandparents over the death of their youngest daughter was tangible. I'm thankful they took me in instead of being dumped at the orphanage. But their grief filled their hearts and home, and I breathed it in every day. With each passing moment, I looked less like a boy and more like the man who caused their grief.
As I grew, I became another shard of their broken dreams, causing them pain every time I cut across their field of vision.
I felt my welcome slowly slip until it vanished.
I made sure I needed nothing from them. I always kept quiet and never broke the rules. I did as much work around the house as possible without being asked and stayed out of their sight unless necessary.
