Chapter 92: Not a Burden

(GRIFFIN)

A sharp, sour tang cuts through the cool night air, threading into my dreams like a blade.

I smell fear.

My body snaps awake before my mind fully catches up. Every instinct flares to life, primal and urgent. My heart pounds as I turn my head, searching for the source. I find only Maya, curled tight on the blanket beside me, her face twisted in pain.

A low, broken whimper escapes her throat.

I sit up instantly, reaching for her. She’s trembling, her hands clutching at the blanket like she’s trying to hold on to something that’s slipping away. Tears streak her cheeks, catching the faint light from the stars.

“Maya,” I murmur, voice rough with sleep.

I touch her shoulder gently. She flinches hard, a soft sob tearing from her lips. “Maya, wake up,” I try again, a little louder.

Nothing.

She’s trapped in whatever hell her mind has conjured. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, like she’s fighting something, or someone.

A deep, protective growl builds low in my chest, unbidden. I suppress the feral urge to hunt whatever’s hurting her, because I know it’s not real. Not right now, anyway.

I try shaking her shoulder again, firmer this time. “Maya. Wake up. You’re safe.” Still nothing.

My chest aches seeing her like this, vulnerable, lost. She’s always so strong, so steady. It guts me to see her caught in a terror she can’t escape.

Screw it.

I gather her in my arms, lifting her up against my chest. She’s so small, so light, like she could disappear if I blinked too hard. She stiffens at first, a broken whine spilling from her lips, but I pull her closer, tucking her securely against me.

Then, I rumble.

The sound vibrates low in my chest, deep and steady, a noise that instinct pulls from me. A soothing sound. Comfort.

Protection.

The way a wolf calms a frightened pup.

I feel the moment it reaches her. Her trembling eases slightly, her fists unclenching from the blanket to clutch at my shirt instead. Her breathing slows, the desperate gasps evening out into softer, deeper pulls of air.

I keep rumbling, rocking her gently, my heart breaking with every soft hitch of her breath. “You’re safe,” I murmur into her hair, my voice barely more than a breath. “I’ve got you.”

Slowly, slowly, the tension drains from her body. Her weight sags fully into mine, her head pressing against my shoulder, her skin warm against my neck.

I don’t stop rumbling until her breathing evens out completely, until the scent of her fear fades from the air around us. Only then do I ease my own breathing, my arms still wrapped tightly around her.

She looks so peaceful now.

But the tears staining her cheeks tell a different story. My gut twists at the thought of what she must have been dreaming about.

I brush a stray strand of hair from her face, my fingers barely grazing her soft skin. Even in sleep, she leans into my touch. I stay like that for a long moment, just holding her.

Then, a movement at the edge of my vision makes me glance up.

Maya’s mother stands in the doorway of the cottage, wrapped in a shawl, her face pale in the moonlight. I stiffen automatically, bracing for anger, for suspicion.

But she just watches us, something raw and aching in her expression. For a minute, she says nothing. Then, low and almost shaking, she whispers, “That’s the first time I’ve seen anyone be able to calm her down.”

I blink, holding Maya a little tighter.

“She’s had those nightmares since she was a child,” her mother continues, stepping closer, her voice thick with emotion. “No one could ever wake her. We just had to wait for them to pass.” She smiles sadly. “She wouldn’t even let me hold her. Always fought it. But you…” Her gaze drops to where Maya is tucked trustingly against me, clinging even in sleep. “You’re different.”

The words settle heavy in the night air, sinking into my chest like stones. Different.

I’m not sure what to say to that. I’m not sure I can say anything with the lump forming in my throat.

Maya stirs slightly, a soft sigh escaping her lips, but she doesn’t wake up. She burrows closer instead, seeking more of my warmth.

Her mother’s eyes soften. “Would you like some tea?”

I want to say no. But this woman is important to Maya, to my fated mate. So, I lower my head respectfully. “Thank you.” “You should bring her inside. She will sleep deeply now.”

Her mother steps aside, and I move carefully, cradling Maya’s slight weight in my arms as I rise to my feet. She sighs quietly, her head resting against my chest as if she has always belonged there.

Maya’s room is small but warm, the scent of lavender hanging in the air. I pull back the covers with one hand and gently lower Maya onto the bed. She curls up in the blanket instinctively.

I hesitate for a moment, brushing my knuckles along her jaw in a feather-light caress. Then, I step back, leaving her to rest. When I go back outside, Maya’s mother is already at the small outdoor table, pouring steaming tea into two chipped mugs.

She glances up at me and gestures to the chair across from her. I sit, the mug warm between my palms.

For a moment, we remain silent, watching the light grow stronger as the sun climbs toward the horizon. Birds begin to stir in the trees, their songs tentative and sleepy.

Finally, Helen speaks, her voice quiet but steady. “Her nightmares started when she was six.” I look up sharply, but she’s staring into her tea, her expression distant.

“My husband, Maya’s father, got involved with the wrong people.” Her mouth twists with something between bitterness and grief. “Debts he couldn’t pay. Promises he couldn’t keep.”

I don’t respond. I know there’s more she needs to say.

“She was taken as collateral.” Her hands tremble slightly as she lifts the mug to her lips. “Dragged from our home one night while I was working a double shift.”

My hands clench the mug so tightly, the ceramic creaks.

“There was another child with her,” she continues. “A little boy. They were held together.” Her voice hitches, but she forces herself to go on. “Somehow, they managed to escape. My Maya, she found her way home alone.”

She finally looks at me then, guilt heavy in her eyes.

“Maya barely remembered anything about the event. The mind protects itself, you know? But the fear never left. It just…changed shape. Turned into nightmares she couldn’t explain.”

I swallow hard, my throat thick. The image of little Maya, scared and helpless, wounds me deeper than I would have expected.

“She never let anyone touch her when the nightmares came,” her mother whispers. “She even fought me. Always said she didn’t want to be a burden.”

I think of the way Maya clung to me. How she sought comfort without even realizing it.

“She has spent her whole life taking care of me,” Helen says, her voice breaking. “She grew up too fast. Learned to carry everyone else’s pain because no one ever carried hers.”

A tear slips down her cheek, but she doesn’t wipe it away.

“I tried. God knows I tried. But I was broken, too. I was so busy surviving that I forgot how to live. And Maya, she deserved better.”

The shame in her voice is unbearable.

“She’s not a burden,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “Not to you. Not to anyone.” Her mother lets out a weak laugh.

“Try telling her that.”

“I will.” I lean forward, setting the mug down with a soft clink. “I intend to.”

She studies me for a long moment, as if weighing the truth of my words. Whatever she sees must satisfy her, because she nods slowly, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“She’s stubborn,” she warns gently. “So am I.”

Another period of silence stretches between us, but it feels lighter now, less raw.

“She has always been strong,” Maya’s mother says, almost to herself. “But she needs someone who sees her strength.

Someone who doesn’t expect her to carry the world alone.”

“I know.” My chest aches with the sheer depth of it, the fierce protectiveness unfurling inside me like wildfire. “I see her.”

“I—” Helen hesitates. “I’m not always lucid. I don’t always remember her, and it hurts her, but she doesn’t say anything. If something ever happens to me, I don’t know what my little firebird will do. I’m all she has.”

“She will never be alone,” I vow to her. “She will always have me.”

Her mother smiles at me, albeit a little sadly. “I hope so. She has a tendency to push people away when she is in pain.

Don’t let her push you away.”

“I won’t.”

The tea tastes sweet, far sweeter than I care for, but I don’t mind. Not today.

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