18. Breya

EIGHTEEN

brEYA

B reya woke in the King's bed the day after she had been taken. She remembered everything in a strange wash of imagery, colors confused and dulled. Getting home with Thorne was the best part, having felt overwhelmed with the need to be tangled up with his strong, warm body.

And they had made love beautifully. But the rest of the story gave the witch a bitter feeling in her belly.

She had to make a decision, one way or the other. And the sadness inside her left her aching for home. It wasn't a castle, but it was a familiar, wonderful place.

Breya waited for Thorne to wake on his own. She was dreading dropping a bomb like that on his head right after such a thrilling night of exploration. But sex wasn't really their problem.

She lay awake, staring up at the ceiling for what felt like an eternity. Sunlight crept into the lavish room. Dawn was spilling over the horizon when she finally felt the king stir.

The witch's stomach jolted.

"Good morning, gorgeous," he mumbled into the pillow before rolling over to face her.

He was smiling, a full ecstatic grin that wasn't in any way mischievous. Breya remained on her back as he reached for her, tracing his fingers along the curve of her bare shoulder.

"Good morning," she said softly. "How did you sleep?"

"Perfectly," he replied, propping himself up on his elbow.

His hair was released from its bindings, an immaculate, golden torrent of lushness. Breya was sure that it was a rare sight, even for the servants and housekeepers who had been employed by him for years. His beauty was undeniable, nearly forcing her devout conviction to shrink.

"What about you, darling?" he asked, then gaped his mouth open with a lion-like yawn.

There was always a good reason not to do something —the sage words of her sister bounced around Breya's head. She could either wait to tell him after breakfast, or continuously put it off, the truth of her longings slowly being buried beneath the desire of another.

She wasn't cruel. Not in any conceivable way. But it had to be done.

Breya kissed his hand, then rolled over onto her side. Her lack of reply drew a wide-eyed stare from the king's sleepy silvery eyes.

"Thorne, I have to tell you something. And I have to tell you now. Please know that I have been mulling this around for hours. Please hear me out and know that my intention is never to hurt you."

He dropped his hand from her shoulder, the lithe nature of his body replaced by a grave, hardened one.

"Tell me," he said.

Breya took a deep breath. The look in his eyes, the fear she saw there, nearly made her change her mind. How easy it would be to kiss his pain away and continue as if her heart wasn't being torn in two.

It would have seemed easy at first, but it wouldn't be forever. It would return like hostile waves and drown out any life they may have built together.

The words sat like a stone in Breya's throat. She gathered all of her strength and told him her truth, looking deep into his foreboding, doleful eyes.

"Thorne, I can't do this. I am not fit to be your queen. I know that your subjects don't like me, and I don't think that is something that is going to change. I think that's why I was kidnapped. The sorcerer doesn't want a witch queen. No shifter will. I can't stay here."

The muscles in his face clenched, and then he sat up, his long arms hanging down around him like a mighty ape. Breya sat up too, pressing the silk bed sheets against her naked breasts.

When he spoke, he wasn't looking at her.

"I know that you think they aren't going to like you ever, Breya. If that is true, that still would not matter to me. I am their king, and you are my mate. You are what matters to me, more than anything in this universe."

He paused, the song of the sparrows outside their window intrusive with their pleasantness. Breya felt like her heart was beating through the bedsheets.

"…And as far as the kidnapping goes," he continued soberly. "I am going to add more protection around you so that never happens again."

Breya sighed and laid a cautious hand on Thorne's shoulder. It felt wrong to apply a platonic touch while lying in the King's bed, utterly naked.

"But I don't want to live like that," Breya replied, feeling brave but guarded. "I miss my family, Thorne. I miss the village. I miss my work. Everything was just so much simpler back there. I want to get my old life back."

He surprised her by recoiling from her touch, turning his shoulder away swiftly then grunted. Breya felt a stab of that old familiar guilt.

Thorne rose from the bed, naked for a moment, bathed in small slants of tangerine light. When he turned back, he had gathered himself, but Breya still felt something simmering just below the surface.

With shifters, it was quite easy to detect.

"I don't mean to offend you, Breya, but aren't your feelings for me something to give time for? Isn't that something that you will miss when you leave? Outside all of the king and queen hullabaloo, what about our relationship, our affection?"

Breya pinned the sheets tighter against her chest. She started to wonder if it wasn't exactly prudent to have this conversation in the nude. But alas, it didn't matter anymore.

She gazed up at him, her eyes swelling over with tears. Her voice was scratchy when she spoke, but she meant every word.

"I am always going to think of this time fondly, Thorne. I mean it. You are always going to have a piece of my heart."

Her lip trembled and she turned away for a moment. She heard a thump and realized that Thorne had dropped to his knees next to the bed.

"Breya," he said with an uneasy, agonized smile. "I implore you to think about this, for only one day. I promise not to plan any more balls in the meantime. Please think about all of this. And if, at the end of the day, you desire, join me for dinner."

Breya didn't have any more words left inside. She felt like the Savanna plains – desolate, and run dry.

She didn't want to take time to think anymore. She knew that his torment would eat away at her resolve, and she would give in to keep the tenderness at bay. But she told him she would, and he dressed, leaving her alone to return to her chambers.

Breya moved solemnly back to the queen's quarters, informing Sarielle that she wasn't requiring her services that morning. She didn't protest but gave her a knowing, motherly stare before leaving.

When Breya was finally alone, she started to pack her bags. She felt heavy with gloom, not only her own, but Thorne's grief too. She was usually more apt at compartmentalizing the emotions of others to keep from bleeding into her own. But Thorne was different. He had infiltrated her finely tuned barriers and left an indelible mark.

Her cheeks became blotted with tears as she penned a good-bye letter. It wasn't the way she wanted to go, but she felt she really didn't have a choice. Thorne was attached to her in a way that he couldn't really ever see her side of things. It was the shifter blindness she had come to know intimately.

Breya was midway through the letter, dabbing her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse when the energy of the room changed. Then came that smell of something in a state of decay.

The witch spun around and was greeted by Nyfain once again, surrounded by a mass of ugly, oily smoke. He was showing off those peg-like teeth and came toward her with terrifying speed.

His outstretched bony hand clapped around Breya's throat. She dropped the quill as the sorcerer tightened his grip.

"So glad that you decided to leave a note." He sneered, eyes wide and the color of bone. "Now no one is going to know that I have you. How very thoughtful ."

Breya tried to scrape at the skin of his arms with her nails, but it was like scraping along leather. Her throat was closing up, but not because he was trying to choke or strangle her. No—Nyfain was siphoning her of her energy so she could not retaliate.

She felt it like the draining of a bowl through a hole in the bottom. She was a powerful witch, but he had caught her off guard during a vulnerable moment. She was already somewhat emptied by her confession to the king, so there was little to salvage.

But Breya kicked at his shins and continued trying to dig her nails into him. The last of her vitality was taken from her, sucked away through a narrow tube.

She could hear him cackling as the drapes behind him began to blur. She tried to visualize her mother, her sister, her father, Thorne.

But it didn't work. Breya dropped into the blackness of unconsciousness.