The Gender War (The Gender Game #4) by Bella Forrest (read novel full TXT) 📗

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.

“The king ordered us to stand in front of that door,” she spat. “We thought… We knew what he wanted, and we gave it freely. But… when he came out of hiding…” She looked away, her hand tightening on her son’s hand for a moment. “I won’t fight for him,” she declared, ratcheting her chin up a notch. “Not for that bastard—he doesn’t deserve it. But for you? We’d… we’d be honored if you let us join you.”

It was hard to imagine just how surreal it must be for this woman to stand in front of her husband and ask us if she could join our cause. She was a Patrian woman—at least, I assumed she was—which meant she had been raised never to speak her mind. She had never been expected to fight, or to be more than a mother and a wife. Now she wanted to be a soldier.

I looked at Viggo, and noted the way he grated his teeth, the vein in his jaw ticking away rapidly. “It’s we who would be honored,” I said, snapping my gaze back to her.

The woman’s eyes widened in alarm—probably because I had spoken before Viggo had—but then a little flicker of a smile passed over her face, and she inclined her head gracefully. “Thank you,” she offered sincerely, taking a step back.

I watched the family depart and turned to Jeff. “Thank you for that,” I said. “Can you please take their names for Ms. Dale and Hen—” I cut myself off, remembering that Henrik might not make it through the next hour, the thought curdling my excitement.

Jeff, ever full of grace, inclined his head. “Of course, madam. As an aside… you asked about Mr. Solomon? We managed to return him to the truck while he was still unconscious, along with several days’ worth of food. The truck appears to be secure—no damage from the Matrians’ attack. As for Mr. Solomon himself… as the doctor couldn’t be spared from Mr. Henrik’s side, we removed the bullets and cleaned and dressed his wounds as best we could. We’ll try