9. Times Up, Alessia

nine

Times Up, Alessia

Rainer

W arm sunlight caresses my skin as I stand among my gardens, holding a blue rose by the stem. My other hand is stuffed into my pocket as I wait like I have every night since Alessia left me over two months ago.

She never indicated we couldn’t be friends, except the door to her court remains locked. Tynan told me about her incident at the Shyga stockade with his blood sources. Between that and her request to be alone, I’m antsy, desperate to see her.

But I also want to respect her desire for space.

It feels like we’ve been here before, and I hate it.

Overhead, the sun flickers, and the world around me stutters into darkness before brightening. My shoulders slump as I realize she’s not coming—again.

This means I only have seconds before the nightmare slithers in, consuming the cozy dreamscape around me and replacing it with a medley of my fears and pain.

I twirl the stem between my fingers, watching a cobalt petal fall, fluttering gently to the ground.

The blue coloring doesn’t exist in my gardens—only in my dreams. It’s a rarer breed than the sunset rose; not even Terra Court has them. The blue rose symbolizes an undying, unwavering, unrequited love that is both impossible to achieve yet impossible not to yearn for.

They represent unattainability.

Alessia is my blue rose.

She is unattainable perfection and beauty. I could devote my entire life to cultivating her, only to be left empty-handed and longing at the end, much like gardeners of the blue rose.

But it doesn’t mean I won’t stop hoping for a miracle. Any day now, she will surprise me, making a rare appearance in the garden of my heart.

Thunder cracks through the sky, and the world darkens into an immediate night. The flower wilts, its petals wrinkling and turning grey. Then, they turn to ash and blow away.

The gardens around me shrivel, the vibrancy wasting away into the colors of broken dreams and lost hope.

My body goes rigid as the air around me thickens. I release the stem, letting the flower tumble to the ground. I run a hand over my tense jaw, preparing to bolt as soon as the screams start.

And these days, they always do.

“Sleep like shite again?” Kenisius asks, gently kicking my boot with his own.

I grimace, squatting down beside my roses. “I’m used to it.”

“You slept better with the little demon.”

Don’t I know it .

Grunting, I don’t deign to reply. Obviously, I did everything better with Alessia, but that would be incredibly selfish reasoning to refuse her request for space. I know she’ll return to me when she’s ready.

Digging a finger into the soil, I inspect the moisture level. It’s still moist from yesterday’s rains. I almost wish the dirt was dry so I could busy myself with watering the flowers.

But to my dismay, my gardens have been perfectly tended to.

Without me.

Like Alessia, the roses don’t need me, either.

Anger surges through me, and I clench my jaw. In this mood, I’m better off training with the shifters than caring for my flowers.

I’m not feeling particularly nurturing at the moment.

Standing, I wipe the dirt off my hands and roll up my sleeves. There’s new ink on my right forearm amidst the various lines. It stands out with dark, fresh detailing: a black rose with bleeding thorns. The small splashes of red are the only color permanently marked on my skin.

A devotion to Alessia that’s representative of our relationship—the one I will never give up on.

She might not need me, but I need her .

“Aren’t you supposed to be scouting the Gleam?” I ask Kenisius flatly, unamused by him following me like a lost puppy today.

I stride toward my castle, shoving the door open and entering a side hallway.

“There’s been no movement in weeks—since they moved in. Viv’s watching the estate.” He clucks his tongue at me, slamming the door shut behind us. “We can proceed whenever you’re ready. ”

An influx of soldiers have taken up residence in the house Alessia grew up in. Every so often, one crosses the Gleam. It’s clear the men have no training. It’s laughable how pathetic their efforts are. I’d say they’re being sent to their deaths.

But why?

There’s something I’m missing. But for now, we play the game, destroying them and sending their carcasses back, all while spying and gathering information.

“No,” I correct. “We wait for Alessia to proceed.”

This is her vindication—her salvation—after all.

“We can’t wait forever, Rai,” he says softly.

“Speak for yourself.” I pick up my pace, shuffling toward the stairwell.

“And risk losing our advantage? We need to move before the humans do.”

I sigh, knowing he’s right. Pausing, I rub my forehead aggressively. Before I can turn to him and reply, a pixie blasts into my line of sight.

“Fear Prince,” she squeaks. “The Aer Prince has arrived just beyond the gate.”

I nod, and she flits away. My heart fills with hope, beating a little faster and matching my pace as I quickly navigate toward the foyer. If Ezamae is here, he has free time from Yvanthia’s demands. I can send him to check on Alessia without overstepping her request for space from me.

Loopholes.

“We’ll resume this later,” I tell Kenisius.

“I’m hungry,” he calls behind me. “Gonna go eat.”

We part ways, heading in different directions .

When I reach the foyer, Ezamae stands in the center, underneath the bone chandelier. His shoulders are stiff, his navy clothing pretentious and stifling. Blue gems glitter in his ears, the deep color contrasting with his washed-out complexion and hair.

“Prince of secrets and seduction,” I greet sarcastically. My tone is flatter than his lips, which tug up as he spots me.

“Prince of fear and feckery,” he retorts. “Still clinging to your wards, I see.”

I scowl. “Still an irritating arse, I see.”

He laughs, and it’s a short, surprised sound. Stepping toward me, he opens his arms.

“What is this?” I grunt.

“A hug.” Then, he embraces me in a half-hug. I return it, stiff and awkward, then quickly pull away.

Affection isn’t my strong suit, but the Aer Prince has grown on me. By some definitions of the word, dare I say, I even consider him a friend. He’s been keeping a close eye on Alessia—able to enter and leave her court undetected.

Eventually, I’m getting her damn placed warded.

But for now, I take advantage of the opportunity.

I lead Ezamae through the hallway between the double staircase and take a sharp left into a parlor. Gesturing toward the many seating options, I choose a crimson settee for myself and perch on the edge.

“How is the wretched hag?” I ask, referring to Queen Yvanthia.

Ezamae sits on an armchair facing me. He crosses his ankle over his knee and gives me a long look. “Healthy as ever.”

“Unfortunate. ”

She only visited us once, shortly after I returned from her dungeon. It was merely to deliver a warning, showcase her power with its returning strength, remind us what she’s capable of—and remind everyone that both Ezamae and I are nonconsensually bonded to her lest anyone try to harm her.

If she is harmed, so are we. It’s a clever trick to keep control over those who care for us.

“She’s a cunt,” I mutter, crossing my arms.

Ezamae’s smile returns, bigger this time. His silver eyes twinkle with amusement, but he lifts a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture. I shrug, knowing the queen has him glamoured into telling her any ill-speak about her.

“You can tell her I said she’s a cunt.” I scowl. “Although that shouldn’t come as much of a surprise.”

He laughs and then clears his throat. “Alessia still hasn’t come out from that crypt.”

“You visited?” I sit up a little straighter.

“Admittedly, I’m rather surprised you haven’t stormed in and brought her back yet, you possessive brute.”

“I’m tempted,” I say.

Very tempted.

I try not to worry about her. She’s very capable, especially with the added protection of her newfound magic—as scared as she is of it, it won’t harm her , and that’s what I care about.

At least, in theory, it shouldn’t. The magic is tied to her essence; if Alessia is wounded, the shadow-spirit would be as well.

Beyond that, Tynan still resides in his shack on the grounds. He has his faults, but he’s been sober—reliable .

The pixies frequent Spiritus Court, too. They might not be able to enter Alessia’s court—her door has remained shut—but they at least can keep an eye on my brother, who can keep an eye on the grounds.

It’s a very roundabout way to monitor her, but it eases my mind enough to prevent me from barging into her court.

Though, admittedly, I drop off food for her weekly, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in the flesh. It’s hard not to feel abandoned when she no longer appears in my dreams.

I run a hand through my hair, replaying everything that built up to me and Alessia being apart. “This shite is all my fault,” I mutter. “All because I was insecure.”

If I hadn’t made the mistake of snapping on Eoin, of giving into my bloodlust, we wouldn’t be in any of this mess.

“Yvanthia would’ve gotten what she wanted either way,” Ezamae says quietly, reading my turmoil. “Don’t blame yourself.”

My eyes narrow.

He chuckles, adjusting his velvet sleeves. “Don’t project your annoyance onto me for being right , either.”

“I am regretting sharing my feelings with you.”

He laughs again.

“How is she?” I ask, unable to tiptoe around it anymore.

His features pinched, a strained expression crossing his face. “She’s… alive.”

“How is she?” I repeat with a growl, jolting forward and leaning into his space.

He raises his hands. “I didn’t talk to her. She was doodling on some old documents in a musty room.” He pauses, and my hackles raise. “I couldn’t stay long.”

“You don’t need to talk to her to know how she’s doing. Don’t make me ask you a third time.”

He shakes his head. “Fine. I really do not want to worry you, but… there’s an unusual air of melancholy about her.”

“Unusual, how?” I ask with deathly calmness. I hold my breath, waiting for his response.

He glances down, fingering the buttons on his jacket. “She’s not as lively or active as she has been previously. With each visit, the light is fading from her eyes. I don’t think she’s bathed. And she hasn’t bothered with anymore tidying up.”

A heavy exhale rips from my lungs, and I jump to my feet. I shouldn’t have left her alone. I only wanted to heed her request for space.

“The place was…” Ezamae pauses, giving me an apologetic look. “Well, as unkempt as you’d imagine a crypt to be. She’s living in squalor.”

“It’s not a crypt,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes.

“It feels like one.”

Alessia must be exhausted after a lifetime of cleaning up after others.

I round the settee and face away from Ezamae. Dark waves fall into my eyes, and I push the strands out of my face.

How much time is enough time?

And at what point is she pushing me away not to find herself but to run from someone who cares for her?

Her pattern is recognizable. I’ve been there. After what happened with my mother …

It took me a long time to trust myself again, and I continue to work on that. If it weren’t for Alessia, I might never have allowed myself to love .

She could use help, but I don’t want to overstep and intrude. The last time I went after her—at Eoin’s—look at what a mess I made. Even so, I’d never consider my previous actions a mistake because it brought us to the present. And despite what she thinks, Alessia is stronger than ever now.

But she doesn’t see it.

She should be flourishing, and she’s not.

She’s wilting.

At some point, intervention is required to keep her from rotting. If she hates me for overstepping, so be it. But I can’t witness her refusing to live after everything she’s done to earn a life.

Perhaps if I send the others instead of showing up myself, she won’t see it as me disobeying her request for space and time. Seeing familiar faces like Kenisius, Das Celyn, Ezamae, and Fern might do her well.

This way, she’s not alone, but I’m still respecting her need to be away from me. And if she sends word that she’s ready, I’ll be there in an instant.

We can help her whip her court into shape. I can update her on the plans to invade Dovenak and secure the iron because, as Kenisius said, we can’t wait forever.

Or maybe these are all excuses to justify my burning desperation to see her. To touch her.

Feck it.

Alessia wanted her freedom, and instead, she’s become a prisoner of her own making .

“I can’t wait a moment longer,” I say, spinning around to Ezamae. Leaning forward, I grip the back of the settee. “I need your help.”

His shoulders relax, and he smirks. “I thought you’d never ask.”

I’m a patient male, but even patient males hit their limit.

And I’ve hit mine.

Times up, Alessia.