I Married the 'Mad' Heir

Ch 49: Where It Hurts

Abel carried him.

Not with the frantic, possessive urgency of his arrival, but with a steady, purposeful stride. He moved through the dappled forest like he knew every root and stone, cradling Orion against his chest as if he were something precious and fragile. Orion didn’t protest. He let his head rest on Abel’s shoulder, the solid rhythm of his husband’s heartbeat a soothing drum against his ear.

He expected them to head straight back to the manor, to their room, to retreat behind closed doors.

But Abel veered off the main path.

He walked deeper into a quieter part of the woods, where the sunlight filtered down in soft, green-gold pools. The sounds of the training yard faded, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant call of a bird. Orion felt the tension in Abel’s arms slowly begin to ease, replaced by a different kind of weight—a heavy, thoughtful quiet.

Finally, Abel stopped under the sprawling canopy of an ancient maple tree. Its leaves were a vibrant tapestry of green, and the ground beneath was carpeted in soft moss and last year’s fallen leaves. Without a word, Abel sank down, his back against the broad trunk. He didn’t set Orion beside him. He simply adjusted his hold, settling Orion sideways in his lap, keeping him enclosed in the circle of his arms, his chin resting on top of Orion’s head.

They sat in silence for a long moment. The forest breathed around them.

Orion could feel the confession building in Abel’s chest before he heard it.

”I scared them,” Abel whispered, his voice rough with remorse. The words vibrated through Orion’s back. ”The soldiers. I saw their faces. They were... stiff. Like statues.” He took a shaky breath. ”I scared you. I’m sorry.”

Orion turned slightly, enough to wrap his arms around Abel’s neck. He pressed a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw. ”You didn’t scare me,” he said, and it was true. There had been shock, surprise, but not fear. Not of Abel. Never of Abel. ”You surprised me. And you worried me, because you were so upset.”

Abel shook his head, a slow, mournful movement. ”My friend Aster,” he said, the name tasting foreign and familiar on his tongue. ”He said he would play horsies with me. With the wooden ones. I remember that. A little. He was smiling.” He squeezed his eyes shut. ”And still I growled at him. Like a bad dog. I growled at my friend.”

The pain in his voice was a tangible thing. It wasn’t just about the action; it was about the betrayal of his own fragmented self. He had recognized a friend, and his instincts had attacked anyway.

”Oh, Abel,” Orion murmured, his heart aching. He stroked the blond hair at Abel’s temple. ”He isn’t angry at you. He understands. He knows it’s the... the protectiveness. The Alpha part of you that got startled. He was never in any danger from you. Not really.”

”He touched you,” Abel mumbled, the core of the hurt laid bare.

”He kept me from falling and cracking my head open on a rock,” Orion corrected gently. ”There’s a difference. And Aster knows that. None of us are angry with you. I promise.”

Abel pulled back just enough to search Orion’s face. His golden-brown eyes were wide, vulnerable, swimming with confusion and self-loathing. ”You promise?”

Orion smiled, a real, warm smile that reached his eyes. He framed Abel’s face with his hands. ”I swear it on my favorite cookie. On Angel’s shiny coat. On your wooden horsie with the chipped ear. I promise.”

A small, wobbly smile touched Abel’s lips. It was fleeting, but it was there. The storm clouds in his eyes began to clear, leaving behind a soft, weary sadness.

Then, without warning, he leaned down and kissed Orion.

It was different from the claiming kiss in the clearing. This one was slow, deep, and searching. It was a kiss of apology, of reassurance, of a need to reconnect on a level beyond words. Orion melted into it, responding with equal tenderness, his fingers threading into Abel’s hair.

As the kiss deepened, Abel shifted. Gently, he lowered Orion backwards until he was lying on the soft, fragrant moss, Abel’s large body caging him in, braced on his elbows above him. The kiss continued, sweet and desperate all at once.

But then Orion felt it—a tiny, broken sound against his lips.

A whimper.

Abel broke the kiss, burying his face in the curve of Orion’s neck. His shoulders trembled.

”Abel?” Orion whispered, concern spiking. He ran his hands down Abel’s broad back. ”What is it? What’s wrong?”

”It hurts,” Abel choked out, his voice muffled and thick with unshed tears.

Alarm shot through Orion. ”Where? Did you pull something? Are you injured?” He tried to push up, to look for blood, for a wound.

Abel shook his head. He caught one of Orion’s hands in his own. His grip was tight, almost painful. Slowly, deliberately, he brought Orion’s palm and pressed it flat against his own chest, right over his heart.

The muscle beneath was hard and warm, beating a frantic, uneven rhythm.

”Here,” Abel whispered, a tear finally escaping to trace a hot path down his temple and into his hair. ”It hurts here. When I saw you... with him... it started hurting here. Like someone was squeezing it. Twisting it.” More tears followed, silent and relentless. He looked down at Orion, his expression one of pure, bewildered agony. ”Am I sick, Orion? Is my heart breaking?”

Orion stared up at him. He felt the frantic beat under his palm. He saw the raw, unguarded pain in Abel’s eyes—the pain of a man who felt a devastating emotion but had no name for it, who could only interpret it as a physical illness.

The sheer, heartbreaking innocence of the question washed over him.

Then, a strange bubble of emotion rose in Orion’s own chest. It wasn’t laughter at Abel’s pain. It was the absurd, beautiful, overwhelming relief of understanding. It was the sudden, crystalline clarity of what this all meant.

A laugh burst from him. It was a soft, breathless, incredulous sound that mingled with the threat of his own tears.

Abel blinked, confused, his tears pausing. ”Why are you laughing? My heart is *breaking*.”

Orion laughed again, bringing his other hand up to cup Abel’s wet cheek. He was smiling so widely his face hurt. ”Oh, my love,” he breathed, his voice full of wonder. ”My beautiful, ridiculous, perfect Alpha. You’re not sick.”

”Then why does it hurt?” Abel asked, a child seeking an answer to a mysterious ache.

Orion brushed his thumb over Abel’s cheekbone, wiping away a tear. ”Because,” he said softly, ”that’s what jealousy feels like.”

Abel frowned. ”Jealousy?”

”The green-eyed monster,” Orion explained, his smile tender. ”When you see someone you love being close to someone else, and a part of you—a silly, scared, possessive part—feels like it’s being threatened. It makes your chest tight. It makes your heart ache. It feels like you can’t breathe.”

Abel considered this, his brow furrowed in intense thought. ”But... I don’t want to be a monster.”

”You’re not,” Orion assured him quickly. ”It just means... it means you love me. So much that the thought of losing me, or even sharing me, makes your heart protest. It’s a... a very strong, very Alpha way of caring.”

”Love hurts?” Abel asked, sounding betrayed by the very concept.

Orion’s laughter subsided into a warm, affectionate sigh. ”Sometimes, yes. The scary parts of love can hurt. The worry. The fear. The jealousy. But the good parts...” He guided Abel’s head back down, until their foreheads touched. ”The good parts feel like sunshine here.” He tapped Abel’s chest gently. ”And like warmth. And safety. And happiness so big it feels like you might float away.”

Abel was silent for a long moment, absorbing this. He nuzzled his nose against Orion’s. ”The meadow date,” he said quietly. ”That was sunshine and warmth.”

”Yes,” Orion agreed.

”And when you kiss me goodnight. That’s safety.”

”Yes.”

”And when you laugh at my jokes. That’s the floating happiness.”

Orion’s throat tightened. ”Exactly.”

Abel nodded slowly, as if filing this new information into the chaotic library of his mind. ”So... the hurt is because of love too?”

”It’s the shadow side of it,” Orion whispered. ”The part that says ’this is mine, and I will fight to keep it.’ You don’t have to fight Aster. He’s not trying to take me. But the feeling... the feeling is just proof of how much you care.”

Abel finally lifted his head. He looked down at Orion, his eyes clearer now, though still glistening. He placed his own large hand over Orion’s, which was still pressed to his heart. ”I don’t like the hurt,” he stated plainly.

”I don’t like it either,” Orion admitted. ”But knowing why it’s there... makes it easier to bear. And I can help it go away.”

”How?”

”By reminding you,” Orion said, pulling him down for a soft, lingering kiss. ”That I am yours. That I choose you. Every time.”

The tight, pained expression on Abel’s face finally eased. The tears stopped. He sighed, a deep, shuddering release of tension, and collapsed more fully onto Orion, his weight a comforting blanket. He nestled his face into Orion’s neck, inhaling his scent deeply, as if drinking an antidote.

”The hurt is fading,” he murmured after a minute. ”Now it just feels... warm. Full.”

”That’s the love pushing the jealousy out,” Orion said, stroking his hair.

They lay like that for a long time, under the old maple, as the afternoon light lengthened into evening gold. The world narrowed to the circle of moss, the sound of their breathing, and the steady, calming beat of Abel’s heart under Orion’s hand—no longer hurting, just beating strong and sure.

Finally, Abel spoke again, his voice sleepy and content. ”Myorion?”

”Hmm?”

”Even if love has a hurt shadow... I still pick it. I pick all of it. With you.”

Orion closed his eyes, a wave of pure, undiluted joy washing through him. He held his husband tighter.

”I pick it all with you too, Abel. Every bit.”