The Gender War (The Gender Game #4)(73)

A part of me felt like I was losing him to it already, like the man I knew and loved would be dead long before this conflict was over. Not actually, physically dead—because I would never let that happen—but dead in a darker, more insidious way. He would keep on moving, keep on leading people, keep on trying to help, because that was what he did. But he would do it the same way he had moved to dig the graves. Robotic, unfeeling.

I spotted him standing near the room where the latest murders had happened, staring at the smears of blood through the doorway, and slowed down. He looked so angry. And so very, very sad.

Viggo turned, giving me a hard look, and I felt the urge to hide my bloodied hand behind my back. I wished there was a way I could offer him something, anything comforting, instead of more proof of violence. His gaze dragged back up to my eyes, and he offered me a maudlin smile that threatened to twist my heart in two.

“Hey,” he said, taking a step closer.

“Hey,” I replied, moving one step closer as well. And then another and another, because I just wanted to throw my arms around him and tell him it was going to be all right.

He spread his arms, catching me as I threw myself into them, burying my head in the space where his shoulder and neck met. We held each other for a few moments, taking comfort in the feel of one another’s vitality. “Hey,” he repeated after a moment, tearing a chuckle from me.

I pulled back slightly and gazed into his wonderful green eyes. “It’s going to be okay,” I said—knowing it for the lie it was, but saying it anyway.

His face fell, and he looked away, wincing slightly. “You can’t know that,” he whispered, and I grabbed a handful of his shirt and shook him slightly, forcing him to look at me.

“You’re right,” I said as soon as his eyes fell on mine. “I can’t. But I will lie and lie and lie if it means that for one moment, you go a little easier on yourself. Y-You’re scaring me. I’m so worried about you.”

His features softened, and I leaned my cheek into his hand as he placed it against my face. “I’m sorry. I just… It’s hard to believe…” He trailed off again, his eyes leaving mine and drifting away, and I could tell his thoughts were leading him back to the dead.

“Stay with me,” I urged, smoothing my hand over his shoulders and down his chest. “Dammit, Viggo, I can’t do this without you. You were the one talking about a future. If you give up hope… If you let it win, I know I won’t be able to go on, either.”

Viggo’s eyes focused on mine. “Violet,” he said, “I’m not giving up. No way in hell am I giving up.” I bit my lower lip, my heart aching for him, as he continued. “But I’m going to have to process this.”

I felt him withdraw—not just physically, but also emotionally. I wanted to weep when his hands left me, but I didn’t. Instead, I bit back the fear and the uncertainty, and nodded.

“We all do,” I replied. “But we can do it together.”

He opened his mouth, intent on saying something.

“Excuse me, Viggo?” came a polite voice behind us. I whirled, and met Jeff’s apologetic gaze.

“It’s not a good time right now,” replied Viggo from just behind me. I felt his hand drop onto my shoulder, and my hope rose a notch.

“What is it?” I asked, casting a curious gaze at the three people standing just behind Jeff, their gazes embarrassed and… something else.

Jeff looked back at them, and then met our gazes again. “These people… they had something they wished to say.” He beckoned them forward.

They appeared to be a family, all holding hands, and it was easy to see the relationship between the nervous mother and father and their young child buried among her skirts. The mother, with her long brown hair rolled up in a bun and her fashionable yet modest dress going down to her ankles, gave me an appraising look. I realized how out of place I must seem, with my slacks and button-up shirt. But I wasn’t going to stop being a Matrian—even in the current political climate—so they would have to forgive me these eccentricities.

The man, who was older than Viggo by only a little and dressed in worn jeans and a soot-stained flannel shirt, snatched his hat off his head and clutched it between his hands as he drew closer. “Mr. Croft, Ms. Bates,” he greeted us, a slight tremble in his voice. “I… I just wanted to say thank you. To you… you and your friends, I mean.” His gaze flicked back and forth between us, and he added, “For saving us.”

I kept my face impassive, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Viggo’s face harden, his eyes darkening to a deep forest green. He had heard the thanks, but I knew he didn’t feel like he had earned it.

The man stared for a second, clearly picking up on Viggo’s not-so-subtle anger, and took a half-step back, looking back at his wife. She bit her lip, hesitant for a moment, and then strode forward. “You and your team saved eleven men, fourteen women, and eight children, Mr. Croft. We cannot begin to express how grateful we are. Which is why… we’ve come to enlist.”

I jolted in surprise and gave the woman a closer look. She was pale, and nervous, but under the demure sweep of her bangs there was a fire burning in her eyes. Now that I had seen it, I could feel the determination radiating off of her. “After… after what the king did…” the man offered haltingly, but the woman took over, her spine becoming straighter under our gazes.