quinn.
Up until this point, Quinn had skillfully avoided feeling any kind of remorse. By default, he lacked empathy; it was easy to justify his own selfish actions and his capacity for cruelty. Nyimara enabled him, and though Quinn did not specifically enjoy causing pain to others, it rarely bothered him. When it did bother him – his affair child who toddled far too close to the vengeful attention of his queen – he removed the source of discomfort.
It was easy to be comfortable with the suffering of others.
Quinn is composed as he approaches the panting form of Kipling in the sand, his face a stony mask. He avoids looking in her face by checking the beach for any eavesdroppers. He unfocuses his gaze when he inspects her for traces of his cruel queen.
He can’t close his ears to her voice, though, and it cleaves him in two.
Quinn’s control falters. His eyes widen slightly, and a subtle intake of breath betrays the sudden impact of pain that he desperately tries to conceal. He cannot reconcile this voice with the one he knows so well; the one he’s heard so frequently, scolding or encouraging their son, speaking softly to him through the nights they had spent together before his house arrest. He redirects, grappling with his wounded spirit and spinning it skillfully into irritation. His ears twist back, and his pale blue eyes grow frigid and narrow.
“I live here, Kipling,” he hisses.
“I have obligations.”
He withdraws to flee from his own feelings, expecting to feel safer with a distance between himself and the spotted mare, but he is shocked to find that this only makes it hurt
worse. His artfully crafted irritation distills into the real thing, and he scoffs, unaccustomed to being emotionally pinned like this. He feels like a butterfly on a board, exposed and trapped. There’s nothing else to hold his gaze, and he is forced to look her in the eyes. Her expression pierces him, and he sneers, but he knows her reaction is genuine. The fact that she isn’t acting this way to get a rise out of him only twists the knife, and he is forced to break eye contact. God,
why is she so hurt?
And why is her pain so excruciating to
him?
“Get up, Kip,” he commands, but his voice fails to hold the stern authority that he attempts to project.
“I need to get you out of here.” He sidles reluctantly over to her, nudging her to stand and lean on him. He physically recoils at the thought of touching her, not because he does not want to, but because he knows it is going to hurt him terribly. Her shuddering frame pressed against him will only wrench the blade between his ribs. For once, he has no choice; he can’t shrug out of his discomfort this time, unless he wants to leave Kipling for Nyimara to find. What would the silver-haired Desert queen do with her, if she knew the extent of their affair? If she found out the kind of pain Quinn endured on Kipling’s behalf? He can’t let that happen.
Kipling is
his.
stallion. spanish mustang mutt. 15.3hh. smoky black overo.
