Chapter 51

Izel retrieves my tray from the late-night meal Cainon insisted upon and leaves without noticing me tucked beneath a table in the corner of the room—knees bent, chisel in my hand, empty knapsack slung over my shoulder.

The door clicks shut.

I look at the pristine, perfectly made bed. At the starched white sheets, crisp and clean and so unlike my blackened conscience. I close my eyes and hear the crunching sound that severed arm made when I rolled over it. Feel the wet flesh smearing across me like a warm paste.

My skin erupts with a violent shiver that rattles my organs, and I smack my head against the wall.

No.

Swallowing thickly, I weave my fingers beneath my cloak and scratch at the itch flaring across my tender shoulder, choking on the stab of pain.

The memory.

Refusing to look at the huge, golden urn in the corner of the room that now houses the crystal bloom so I don’t have to see it every time I open my drawer, I keep my head tipped back against the stone, watching the ever-bloating moon through the glass balcony doors …

The gravity of everything that happened today punches me in the gut.

I’m not going to bleed for him. But with the sting attacking the blistering skin on my tender wrist in deep, painful throbs, I refuse to feel guilty.

He once told me it’s in our nature to fall in love with the shackle that binds us, but I am no regular person. I signed up for this political pairing for a fleet I’m yet to receive. To save lives.

Make a difference.

Instead, I’m spending my days trying to clamber out of a basin, reaching for empty promises like a string puppet. Destroying myself.

Destroying others.

It’s become blatantly obvious Cainon has very little interest in parting with his ships—helping the people I grew up watching through the peephole in the throne room. A theory backed by the fact that he keeps dangling them just out of reach.

Chances are, his word doesn’t stand for shit, and I just gave him a perfect reason to whip them further away. Or burn me at the stake.

I promised the ships. I promised myself. But there’s no guarantee I’m going to crawl out of that bowl, and even if I do, no guarantee I’m going to be around after the coupling ceremony to ensure the fleet comes to fruition.

It’s time to take matters into my own hands.

I sit until the moon has lifted from my frame of view. Until I’m certain it’s late enough that most servants have gone to bed. Ripping my stare from the sky, I bag the chisel, crawl out from beneath the table, and push to a stand, wincing as the heavy material of Gael’s cloak abrades the tender, throbbing area on my right shoulder.

The spot where I snipped the bloom.

I unclip the cloak, ease it off, and drape it across my vanity. With a mix of dread and revulsion swirling in my gut, I raise my gaze to the mirror.

Nothing.

I pull a tight breath. Finger the patch of scratched skin; all that is left to pay homage to the disgusting pain I’m wearing beneath my mask—like it doesn’t exist at all. There’s no black vines creeping across my shoulder. No strange bulges, or seeping, headless stems.

Meeting my own vacant stare, I turn from the mirror and exit the suite dressed in the ornate, strapless gown I don’t have the energy to peel myself from, loosely tied at the back and barely keeping me contained. I move through the lobby and rip the door open, coming face to face with a yawning Kolden leaning against the wall, bathed in sleepy, golden light from the chandeliers.

Shit.

He shoves off and blinks at me, rubbing his eyes.

I walk straight past.

“Orlaith!” The word is a whispered hiss wrapped in desperation, casting my feet in stone.

Slowly, I turn—just enough to look at him down the line of my shoulder. “I’m not leaving the palace grounds, so you won’t get in trouble ...”

“I’m not worried about that,” he growls, stealing a look past me and stomping forward. Jaw clenched, he takes me in—from the tip of my bare toes peeking out from the bottom of my dress, to my cupla, and finally my eyes.

He swallows. “Avoid the third floor. He’s in a meeting there.”

I blink, working through my brief wave of shock before I give him a brisk nod and spin, making for one of the back stairwells I became acquainted with while I was hunting for the library.

Threading my hand into my bag, I wrap it tight around the chisel, feeling the sharp edges pucker my skin.

I have a tunnel to dig.

* * *

Tucked between the wall and a thick, heavy tapestry, I stab at the stone with fierce, shattering force, cracking off shards of blue that collect on the floor. I sweep them into my knapsack, which I then lump onto my shoulder, lugging it all the way back up the stairs to my suite.

Kolden lifts a brow when he sees me approaching. “What the hell have you got in there?”

“Part of a wall,” I mutter, and the other brow bumps up as he opens the lobby door, shutting it behind me.

He can’t get all frank on me if I tell him the truth.

I dig my raw, blistered fingers around the side of my dressing room mirror and ease it open, hit by the stagnant wash of lukewarm air. I don’t bother with the lantern sitting on the top of the stairs, instead easing down Old Hattie’s tunnel by sense alone.

Pushing out into the damp jungle, I’m painted in the prickly perusals of the Irilak nesting in the shadows—so stark on this bright, moonlit night, creating a maze of lit paths woven across the ground.

I dig my hand into the stone shards, gripping a fistful and sprinkling it through the underbrush, the mindless motion keeping the ugly thoughts at bay until I’ve emptied my knapsack. Realizing I’m halfway down the path toward the tree Old Hattie showed me, I keep on.

Easing from the jungle’s patchy protection, I step out into the rinse of moonlight pouring down from the clear night sky sprinkled with stars. I reach into my bag and pull out the chisel, holding it tight as I climb the tree, folding up on the lower branch with my back against the trunk. Knees caught close to my chest, I watch the jellyfish dance—all those bright little souls drifting through the waves. So beautiful and free.

It makes my heart ache.

I look to the sky instead; to the moon and the stars and the nothing in between.

In the moon, I see a clock that won’t stop ticking.

In the stars, I see my brother’s eyes.

In the black between it all, I see the inky death that poured from my skin, the charred bodies I left strewn across the ashy stamp of desolation, the Vruk that prowled through, crunching back the evidence.

I see the black vine woven through my shoulder and the little crystal bloom I severed.

Killed.

I stuff my skirt into my mouth and scream—releasing it all in one horrific howl that still leaves me splitting at the seams. I do it again, and again, and again until I’m breathless and heaving.

Releasing the material, my face crumbles, and a fierce, silent sob breaks free, cramping my insides and making me think I’ll never breathe again. I squeeze the chisel. Squeeze it so hard a sharp, merciless pain cuts through my palm …

Cool hands slide beneath my knees and around my back, and I don’t flinch—like part of my shredded soul knew he’d be here, even though he shouldn’t be.

He should be with his people. Helping his people. Not getting muddied in problems that are mine to fix.

I’m lifted from the tree, pulled close to his chest by his flexing might, my limbs tucked amongst his devastating embrace as he sits beside the trunk. Catching my trembling hands, he pries my fingers from the chisel, one by one, whipping it away when I finally relent.

He takes my hands, bunches them up, and presses them close to his heart—thudding along so much faster than I remember. “Breathe,” he growls, nuzzling the word into my neck, nose dragging up as he draws deep and plants the next word against the shell of my ear. “Now.”

My lungs knock into action, drawing a heaving breath that’s all him. A safety shell for me to fall apart within that I certainly don’t deserve.

He shouldn’t be here.

My sobs become rough, tangible things—ugly and twisted and hoarse. But he holds me as I empty myself, his hands wrapping me tighter with every sob until we’re bound so tight there’s only space for my lungs to inflate. He turns to mortar around me, the stirring wind melding our scents into an intoxicating elixir that tames my rioting soul.

My cries lose strength, all my energy bleeding free; those bloody, gory visions dissolving from my fraught mind until there’s nothing left—just this coil of sizzling death tucked deep inside my chest.

Still, he holds me as though he’s afraid that by letting go, I’ll shatter again.

I didn’t deserve to be put back together in the first place. Not after everything I’ve done.

I wish you’d let me die that day.

The burden of those words sits heavy in my heart, reaching up my throat with clawed hands that threaten to rip my mouth wide so they can spill.

A violent noise rattles up his throat—raw and primal. Then he’s pushing to his feet, moving toward the moonlit path with a ground-covering gait.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Home.”

My breath flees.

If he takes me ...

War.

More death.

No ships.

Home …

I allow myself to sip on the pour of relief I feel from that one, tiny word, tipping my head to nuzzle deep into his chest—thinking of honey buns and planting days and my roses in full bloom.

I hate that it fills me. That it makes me want to knot back up and cry again and pour all my weaknesses against him.

Drawing another great gulp of his winter-bourne scent, I rally my strength and shove, twisting out of his hold, thudding to the ground in a crash of limbs that knocks the air from my lungs. Breathless, I roll across the grass and scramble back.

He stalks me like the fall of night determined to gobble up the day.

I push to my feet, and he stops one long pace away. I can see his chest is heaving. Can garner it in the way he’s feeding his scent straight from his lungs into the tight space separating us in deep, drugging puffs.

“You need to understand,” he growls, fist tightening around the handle of my bloody chisel. “Just standing by and watching you suffer goes against my basic instinct. But I’m trying, Milaje. I’m fucking trying.”

I laugh, cold and low, wiping my face with the back of my arm. “Once upon a time those words would have sustained me, you know. Before.”

I swear the world stills. Like even the stars stop their lazy spin.

“Before what?”

There’s an imbalance in his voice, tipped off its scale, scratchy and charged.

Murderous.

“Before you decided to care.”

“I’ve always cared.”

His words burrow between my ribs with piercing force, but I shake my head, fists clenched. Look him straight in the eye while I deliver my cut with every drop of conviction I can muster. “Well, I don’t.”

He bares his teeth in a silent snarl and looks away, back again. “Funny. I’d almost believe you’re telling the truth.”

“I am,” I say on a hollow laugh, stepping forward until we’re pressed close and I’m looking up into onyx eyes—cold, ancient, and winking with the hint of silver sparks. “You’d think losing my entire family was the worst thing to happen to me, but it’s not. It’s you,” I whisper, my words laced with poison.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch or breathe or blink. Just watches me with that crushing stare.

“You’re a monster, Rhordyn.”

I see a flash of hurt in his otherwise stoic gaze, gone the next second. It takes me a moment to realize I’m talking about myself, but I don’t stop—too caught up in the rush of my outburst to stem the flow.

Too desperate to see him crumble beneath the weight of my words.

“Well …” he rumbles, his voice gravel against my skin, “nice of you to catch up.”

“Oh, I’ve been here a while,” I say, and he pushes forward; a hard wall at my front, so close that I can feel the thunderous beat of his heart. “If I could take it all back, I would. I’d prefer being torn to shreds over the nineteen years I spent living in your shadow.”

He seems to swell, upper lip peeling back as a violent rumble attacks me from somewhere deep inside his chest.

He cracks his neck from side to side, and then his hand journeys around my waist, as though he’s trying to return to the moment we had when I was small and broken in his arms. But I’m not broken anymore.

I’m dead.

I lunge, ripping away. “Don’t touch me. Don’t look at me. Don’t even breathe in my direction. I hate you, do you hear me? With every fiber of my being. I. Hate. You.”

His hand bunches into a fist, the static between us buzzing.

“I hear you, Milaje.” Still holding my stare, he offers me the chisel slathered in my blood—enough to satisfy more than a year’s worth of offerings. “Loud and clear.”

I let him drop the handle into my hand, and it feels much heavier than it did. Then he’s before me, crushing the space between us, pouring himself all over me as he plants a kiss upon my forehead.

He pulls away and spins, charging down the moonlit path, his cloak a fierce flutter trailing every brutish step.

I stumble back, lungs deflating, as though my spine just snapped.

Caught by the tree trunk, I drop, grating my spine down the bark, gulping at air that feels utterly empty now that he’s gone.