CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 28

AUREN

I sit here, a thicklayer of a coat beneath me, gloomy daylight filtering in behind, and all I can do is stare at the male in front of me.

If anguish was a person, it would be him.

He shoves a hand through his hair, grip tugging at the black strands while his face is twisted in a pained expression.

I wasn’t fucking there.

Just the way he said it, I could tell it had been beating inside his skull with raised fists, reverberating in his mind over and over again like a malicious echo.

I can’t help but drop my gaze to where the spikes on his arms have ripped through his skin, making him bleed. I’ve never seen that happen any of the other times he transformed. But I can also tell this wasn’t just a normal transformation. When he was listening to my account of what happened, his spikes tore out of him in a violent burst. Whatever magic is associated with his usually harmless metamorphosis couldn’t keep up with his furious emotions.

But seeing this side of him—seeing Rip—it makes me let out a shuddering breath. Because even though he’s still him no matter what form he’s in, I somehow missed him. This is the version of him that I knew first. The version of him that I trusted and pined for.

Tortured black eyes lift to me, and I shiver at the sight of his aura pulsing around his body. It’s moving like aggravated shadows, an overcast of dense torment. But it’s not a falsehood. It’s not a maneuver or a tactic. He’s not doing it with purpose or to manipulate my emotions. In fact, he’s trying very hard not to show emotion.

Seeing him like this makes me wonder how I ever looked at Midas and believed a damn word he said. If Midas ever showed any emotion other than anger, he did it as a scheme.

“An apology is an insulting, shallow word,” Slade forces out. “I hate that all I have to offer you is a cheap word. Sorry is inadequate.” He shakes his head, his shoulders tense, though I doubt it has anything to do with the spikes that tore from his back. “I failed you so utterly. You should loathe me for it. You should never be expected to forgive me for that. But I’m a selfish piece of shit, because I will try to earn your forgiveness anyway.”

Earn it. Not ask for me to give it.

This is so incredibly foreign and bewildering.

“Rip—”

“If I had done anything differently, things could’ve been avoided. I should’ve known something was wrong when Midas headed me off. I should’ve gone straight to your room afterward to check on you. Should’ve never let you leave the camp in the first place. I should’ve found you in that holding cell and saved you before he could hurt you.”

“But, Rip—”

“I should have rotted that entire Divine-damned ballroom right there on the spot, consequences be damned, because I let him fucking hurt you. I just stood there. I just stood there while he threatened to kill you. You should fucking hate me forever, blame me, because I failed—”

“Rip!” My voice lashes out like a whip, cutting off his tangent. He startles, black eyes snapping to me. When I’m sure I have his full attention, I say, “I don’t want that.”

He shakes his head, his jaw working. “I know you didn’t want me to rot everyone. Even after everything you went through, you still came down to protect me.” He scoffs in disgust with himself, as if he didn’t deserve that.

“That’s not what I mean. I’m glad you didn’t intervene.”

He rears back as if I’ve shocked him. “What?”

My nod is slow, but definitive. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

Confusion mottles his features. “How could you not have wanted me to intervene? I failed you—”

“No, you see? The problem was that I have been failing myself.”

His lips press together, and a heavy silence drops between us. I let my finger drag across the cave floor.

“I won’t lie and say I didn’t wish for you to swoop in and rescue me in the moment,” I admit. “But hindsight gives the best perspective, and I’m glad you didn’t.”

He sucks in a breath, as if that wasn’t what he was expecting at all.

“You didn’t fail me. That was on me. For so many years. Would it have been easier and more painless for me if you’d shown up? Yes. But the truth of the matter is, I needed that final straw. I don’t regret it, because I needed to snap. I needed to find my edge.”

I’d avoided it all my life, and it was jagged and painful and steep, but I found it.

“But I should’ve—”

“No,” I say, cutting him off. “I needed to do that for myself. No one rescuing me. No one fighting my fight. It had to be me. Do you understand?”

Emotion wars on his face. I can tell he still thinks he’s failed, still hates that he wasn’t there. And I understand that. I do. But…

I meet his eyes so that he can see the truth in mine. “I had to be the one to save myself.”

Something ruminative swirls in his gaze. “And you did. You fucking did,” he says, pride lacing through every letter. “But I hate that you feel guilty. Midas got what he deserved. He was the real fucking monster. Not you. If you want to blame anyone for his death, you can blame me, because I should’ve been the one to kill the bastard before he hurt you. But I can’t fucking stand that you regret—”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupt, slashing my hand through the air.

He stops, eyes pinned to my face.

And suddenly, I realize this last piece he’s been struggling with—what he’s been thinking all this time. This is the narrative that’s crooned in his ear. I’ve been fighting the memories that night, fighting the truth about my ribbons, about my wayward magic, while I left him to churn in this alone.

I look him straight in the eye. “I want you to listen to me very carefully.”

He seems to brace himself, like a man without shelter locking his knees in a torrential storm.

“Fuck Midas.”

He blinks in surprise. “What?”

“You heard me. Fuck. Midas.”

Great Divine, that feels good to say.

He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“My guilt is about the innocents who got caught up in my rampage. My uncertainty is about my magic. But Midas? No. I’m glad I killed him,” I say, my tone dogged and firm. “The only thing I regret is that I didn’t do it sooner.”

He continues to stand there watching me, like he’s waiting to see a crack in the plastered lie. But he won’t find one, because I mean every word. “You’re truly glad?” he asks carefully.

I nod. “And relieved. I’ve never felt such relief before. It’s just...gone.”

“What is?”

“The cage.”

He doesn’t ask me to elaborate, because I can see by his expression that he knows exactly what I mean.

“I’m still processing.”

“His death?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No. The depth of his control over my thoughts. My decisions. My life. Even now, I find myself cringing away from people, not just because of my power, but because he never wanted me to be touched. I saw things one way; he told me I was seeing it wrong. I felt something; he convinced me I was crazy or overreacting.”

It all comes rushing up. So many little moments. Times I was too blind to see. Too cowered by silver-tongued words in a gold-plated castle.

“It’s everything,” I explain. “The little things. How submissive I’d become. How trodden. I was nothing but a road to him. A means to get to where he wanted to go, and I paved that path in gold. Even now, I worry I’ll never really be rid of him. I worry that I’ll still be walked all over. What if I never truly heal from his manipulations? What if the damage he’s done to my person is never undone?”

There’s a long thoughtful silence before he says, “The emotional trauma you’ve endured will take time, and you need to know when to be gracious with yourself and when to steel yourself. But if you’re ever doubting, just stop and listen to the voice in your head. So long as the voice is yours and not his, then you know you’re beating the bastard.”

Beating the bastard.

I like the sound of that.

“To be honest, I was bracing myself for the guilt to hit me, for regret to shove its way in. Midas manipulated my emotions for so long that I fully expected the damage of that conditioning to rear its ugly head. But what he did to me…”

I clear my throat and look away, one hand feeding into my coat pocket. My fingers twist the piece of my ribbon around, the satin fabric looping around my hand, bolstering me.

“I don’t feel regret or guilt,” I admit. “I’m just fucking angry. Angry that I let it go on that long, that I let him take so much. I’m angry at everyone who ever wronged me or used me. And I’m angry that I didn’t figure out how to save myself sooner. I don’t know what I’m going to do with all this inside me, but I’m not afraid anymore. I’m not trodden with guilt or regret. All I feel is anger.”

Rip’s mouth curves. “Good. Use your rage to complete your courage.”

I suck in a breath of air, the fae beast inside of me practically purring at his claim.

“Anger can do a lot of things,” he goes on, thumbing over the sharp tips of his spikes. “It can drag you down, make you bitter. But if you wield it another way, it can be a stepping stone for your determination.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

“I am. I learned to use my own rage to my advantage.”

The idea that this sharp anger that’s carved into the recesses of my chest could actually be put to use intrigues me. “So you’re not going to tell me to live and let live? To work through my anger and move past it?”

“Absolutely fucking not. I’m going to teach you to use it.”