85. Arran

The beast curled up before a fire long gone cold. No one brought food. No one disturbed the monster. I forgot who I was, what I was. Brutal Prince. High King. Mate.

The beast wanted control, so I gave it to him.

I knew Veyka would not come, but still my beastly senses pricked at every sound. A rustle of skirts, a whipping wind. None of it came to anything.

There I remained for hours, locked behind a door that would not do much if my beast decided to tear it down.

A door to which only one person had a key.

The beast scented her cool lavender before the pin slid into the lock. By the time the door swung open, the male stood before her.

My mother did not pause until she'd locked the door behind her. Only then did she stop to regard me. Starting with the filthy boots, past the trousers with torn-out knees, up to the ragged tunic and vest. Her gaze lingered on my face—unshaven, gaunt. I did not need a mirror to know how awful I must look.

My mother merely cleared her throat and folded her hands. "Veyka prepares to leave Eilean Gayl."

My chest began to burn. When I spoke, my voice was hoarse. "Cayltay must be brought to heel. The war camps will need to be readied; who knows how many months they have been loitering without action."

Two gracefully arched eyebrows lifted. "Your queen has agreed to go to Wolf Bay?"

Ancestors spare me.

"You ask questions you already know the answers to. Why, Mother?"

A slow exhale through her nose. Control—this was the female who had taught me control. The only one in the entire terrestrial kingdom who had dared to approach me, spend time with me, when I was still learning to master my power. "I hope if I ask enough, eventually I will receive a different answer."

My wolf had torn across the countryside, ripping apart any creature that crossed his path. But still, the power simmered in my veins. I curled my fingers in toward my palms, and two thick vines curled through the open window.

I let them grow. Let my power out in a slow, steady stream. "I know that you have grown fond of Veyka. But we must do what is best for Annwyn."

My mother watched the advance of the vines with one eye. "Duty above all else."

They curled around the bookshelves that lined the wall, thick thorns the size of my beast's fang forming, blocking out the gilded spines. "Yes."

She said nothing. "Even above yourself."

Up and up and up the vines climbed toward the flat wooden ceiling. "When necessary."

My mother walked to the window, nudging it open fully. To prevent it from shattering, probably. Small, controlled actions, always.

She stroked one hand over the vine lovingly. As if it was a child's cheek she caressed instead of a thorn-covered tendril of death.

"Will you ever stop punishing yourself?" she asked softly.

It was a question she'd asked me before. The answer was on the tip of my tongue. "It is either punish myself or punish them."

Punish myself for what I had done, the hundreds of terrestrials I had slaughtered in the years it took me to get control of my powers. Force myself to serve a country that had done my own family such harm as penance for the monster that lived inside of me.

It was either that, or tear the world apart for what they had done to my mother.

What it had done to Veyka.

The vines stilled.

What had been done to Veyka? She was a warrior, but a survivor… it would make sense… but I had no memory… No. That is a memory. That feeling of vengeance, a promise not yet fulfilled. To avenge those that had hurt my mate. That was a memory.

My mother turned to face me again, the wall of vines thick behind her, no fear in her eyes even as those thorns swelled in size.

"I am safe, Arran. Whole. Protected. I should be the least of your worries."

I said nothing.

She would never be safe enough. Neither would Veyka.

"Is this about your brother?"

That was a door I kept firmly closed, always. Only my mother would have dared to try and wrench it open. "No."

But my mother was not assuaged. "Have you told Veyka, about what happened?"

"If I did, I don't remember," I bit back. The vines were creeping across the floor now, circling around the legs of the chair and the desk. Soon, there would be no stone left uncovered.

My mother huffed a sigh. "You two are quite the pair. When she told me about your injury, about how it was her hand that drove Excalibur into your chest, I told her I forgave her. She refused me. I imagine you would do the same if I told you, for the thousandth time, that I do not blame you for your brother's death."

It did not matter what she said, how many thousands of times she said it. Because none of that mattered in face of the truth.

"My beast killed him."

I had killed many, in those days. I could hardly recall them. They were a blur of pain and blood. The beast would wrest control at the smallest slight. The vines would shoot through windows, shattering ancient stained glass and wrapping around the offender's throat before I could blink.

None of those faces lived in my memory. Except one.

"Is there a difference between?" my mother asked carefully. So carefully.

That was the true question, the one I had never fully faced. What was the beast, and what was me? Where was the line? For three centuries, I had kept them separate. I had maintained control by forcing the beast into restraints and never fully releasing them. Never.

But when I awoke in Avalon, the line between myself and the wolf was blurred. The mating bond in my chest compelled both male and beast.

If I admitted that they were one and the same—we were one and the same, then I was responsible for my brother's death.

Then I was in love with Veyka.

The burning in my chest was an inferno. It filled my head, my eyes, my heart. I was going to burn up, burn out. Right there, in a lonely tower study that I hated.

Until a cool hand touched my cheek.

I closed my eyes, and exhaled the words that burned my throat. "I killed him." And a second later— "I love her."

In an instant, the vines withered to nothing. A soft swish, and they fell away from the wall. Nothing but tiny fragments on the stone floor, soon to be lost underfoot.

When I opened my eyes, my mother was smiling up at me. "Of course you do."

"But that does not solve anything, Mother." It did not banish the succubus. It did not restore my memories. It did not take back any of the pain.

Her smile just deepened as she dropped her hand, refolding it in front of her. Regal and composed, as always. "Don't you understand, my son? Every trial, every ordeal, every death—it has all been to bring you here. To bring you to her."

My head shook of its own accord. "And what if after all of that, we still are not enough?"

Her head snapped up sharply. "Are you saying that Veyka is not enough?"

"Veyka is everything," my beast growled—I growled—at the mere insinuation.

"Yes, she is," my mother nodded, turning for the door. "And all she wants is you."