‘Yes please,’ she answered, wondering how to even begin to approach such a difficult subject. He had teased a confession from her with sensual delight and pleasure—but that wouldn’t work for him. The soldier in him wouldn’t appreciate anything less than a direct confrontation, but she felt deep in her bones that it wasn’t the soldier she needed to reach.
She heard him fill the percolator and couldn’t sit still. Standing up, she went to him, unable to resist the need to reach out to him, to forge the connection his retreat complicated. Freya wrapped her arms around him from behind and placed her cheek against his back, comforted by the steady pulse of his heart and warmed by his body. He tensed, as if caught by surprise, his muscles rigid before he gave in, his body relaxing within hers as he placed his hand on top of hers, holding them there in that moment.
‘Please don’t.’ His voice was quiet but raw, knowing the question on her tongue.
She closed her eyes, hating that she couldn’t let this go. But it was no longer about whether he took the medal or not, this was about so much more. He needed to face whatever it was that was ravaging his soul.
‘Will you tell me what happened?’
CHAPTER NINE
KJELLGRIPPEDTHEhandle of the percolator with white knuckles, thankful that Freya was tucked behind him and not witnessing his reaction to her question. He considered it. Refusing her. For the first time in his life, he actuallywantedto deny her.
Anger and fear were bitter on his tongue. ‘I can’t help you, Princess,’ he said, taking the bubbling, spitting percolator from the stove. ‘I’d take the medal in a heartbeat if I thought it was the right thing for you, but I don’t,’ he said honestly. ‘So I won’t.’
She held onto him, despite his small movements and his harsh words. Her arms were loose but strong. Determined but with a softness that somehow reminded him of a comfort he hadn’t known in years. His heart pulsed beneath the touch.
‘I won’t be distracted, Kjell.’ Her tone patient, calm,kind.
‘It doesn’t mean it’s not true.’
‘Neither does it make it an answer to my question.’ Again, her gentleness. If she’d come at him with commands and orders, he’d have been able to fight her. But she hadn’t. Whether she knew it or not, it was this, her natural empathetic will to understand that made her the perfect princess. He inhaled, the scent of rich coffee invading his senses, but in his mind he could smell cheap instant granules, thick as syrup and foul as earth.
It’s the only way to drink it, mio amico.
Enzo’s laugh melded with the piercing rumble of the IED explosion and his heart thumped, a cold sweat threatening to break out at the back of his neck. He clenched his teeth, trying to ground himself in the present.
But that wasn’t what brought him back. He looked down to find Freya’s fingers slipping through the spaces between his own, her palm over his hand, light, warm but more of an anchor than any he’d ever felt.
You trust me?
Yes.
The gift of her trust, after their past but also because of it, meant she deserved nothing less than the same in return. He’d not spoken of it once in the last four months. He’d not been able to. But now, with Freya, the words, the thoughts, they were clamouring to get out. As if they’d been waiting only for her. He turned to find her looking up at him, warm whisky-coloured eyes patient and open.
‘Go sit down,’ she said, nodding back towards the large sofa, clearly having sensed his decision. ‘I’ll bring the coffee.’
He picked up their joined hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles before releasing their hold and heading to the sofa on feet that left imprints in sand. Already his mind was back there, straddling the past and the present. He could feel the sweat dripping down his spine, soaking his T-shirt and chest, and was half convinced that if he wiped at his forehead his wrist would come back slick and salty.
He swallowed around an arid heat that sucked any and all moisture from his body. Over the sounds of coffee being poured, he heard the sound of children’s laughter. A beautiful chatter clashing with the tinkle of a spoon against ceramic.
And Enzo, laughing like the biggest kid in the playground, kicking the football into the square in the sand that marked the goal.
Freya pressed a hot mug into his hands before pulling up the foot stool so she could sit opposite him. Within touching distance—if he wanted—but also giving him space.
‘Where were you stationed?’
He shook his head gently. ‘It doesn’t really matter. We’re stationed wherever violence meets the shift of power. It could have been anywhere around the world,’ he said with a finality he felt to the bottom of his heart. That man’s ability to cause great acts of violence in the name of both justice and injustice didn’t surprise him any more should have been warning enough.
‘We were there to facilitate the transition of political power, but also for DDR.’
‘Disarmament, demobilisation and reintegration?’
Kjell nodded. ‘Some of these guys, they’ve been fighting since they were just kids. It’s all they know. And when the peace process begins there’s no job to walk into, there’s no place in society for them, because they’ve been on the outside with no way back. It’s as important to bring them back into their community as it is to disarm. Training, education options, ways for them to contribute to society—if peace isn’t people-centred, then it has no hope.’
Kjell had seen it time and time again in the last eight years. The need to workwitha community, to support, facilitate, enable rather than lead, dominate, overpower. That was peacekeeping at its best. That, to him, was a duty with the highest of callings.
‘I was responsible for nearly six hundred soldiers.’