Val,
It’s
Hearth and Heart today, apparently. I had half a mind to ignore it entirely, but seeing as I’ve somehow been roped into your ridiculous orbit once again, I suppose I ought to acknowledge it.
I thought about getting you something—a gift, a token, whatever people do on this gods-forsaken day—but what do you get for a man who already takes whatever he pleases? Another stolen trinket? A new set of daggers? A
muzzle for that insufferable mouth of yours? (Tempting.)
So instead, you get this. A letter. Because
apparently, words mean something to you.
I don’t know how to do this, Val. Any of it. You tell me I’m something you
won’t let go of, and all I can think is—
why?Why in all the hells would you make
me your reckless, noble crusade? You could have anything, anyone. And yet, you choose
this.
Me. A woman who has spent more time running than standing still, who bites before she thinks, who is half-feral most days and likely to put a knife through your ribs the next time you do something profoundly stupid (which, let’s be honest, will probably be tomorrow).
And the most infuriating part?
I
believe you.
I believe you when you say you mean it, and that terrifies me more than anything else. Because you’re not the only fool in this mess, Val.
I’m trying to fight it. I really,
really am. But then you go and say things, or look at me the way you do and suddenly, I forget why I should be running.
So, fine. Here’s your gods-damned
Hearth and Heart gift: the truth. I care about you. There, I’ve said it. You’ve won. I hope you choke on it.
—Wren
P.S. If you so much as mention this letter to me, I
will murder you.
Val