The First Loss: Vaelor x Elora (Rogue X Ara Book 3)

Chapter 15

Why had I done this? Any of it?

I asked myself this exact question repeatedly, all day, every day as if this time might provide answers. I was beginning to wonder if I’d broken my own mind, if those were the only words it could conjure anymore.

This was a special kind of torture.

I’d thought she was inescapable before, because her letters could find me anywhere, because she invaded my thoughts more consistently than anything else, but the distance made it possible to forget for a few moments here and there.

As it turned out, that was easy.

But this? Having her find me, touch me, speak to me, invade me at every turn was torture at its finest. She was truly and thoroughly inescapable now, and I had done this to myself.

Maybe I’m a masochist after all.

Last night, when I turned to see her stumbling toward me, so dainty and inebriated and fucking angry, I couldn’t have walked away if I wanted to. I had to hear what she had to say. I had to know what filled her with such fiery passion that she followed me from the tavern, but I hadn’t expected her to be angry about my simple request.

That was illogical, and I wanted to chalk it up to the Fae alcohol wreaking havoc on her human body, but I knew better. I knew her better than that, and she was only scratching the surface of the real issue.

She was angry at me in every regard, and she had a right to be, but that was the simplest issue, the easiest fight.

And I couldn’t handle more either, so I let it be—albeit in the worst possible way.

Why the fuck did I tell her she was my human?

That wasn’t even true. I didn’t own her…

I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply.

I wanted to own her.

I wanted to do a great many things to simmer her anger and defuse that damned attitude. When she’d called me an asshole, I wanted to do incorrigible things to that mouth, those lips, full and red and spewing a voice that snaked under my skin in the most maddening ways.

I jumped in the freezing ocean simply to douse the flames consuming me inch by inch.

In layman’s terms, I ran away from her. I, the six-foot-four Fae king, ran from her, the five-foot-nothing human woman.

And then, of course, she was there first thing this morning when I entered the breakfast room. Perhaps she did have magic somehow, some special, unheard of magic that allowed her to be everywhere all at once, because she fucking was—infuriatingly so.

Her eyes were in the clear blue skies, and for some unfathomable reason, I couldn’t bring myself to cover them in my clouds. I wanted to, needed to, just for a single moment so I could breathe, but I couldn’t. Her scent found me in every street, drifting from the bakeries, her hair in every orange and red flower, every flickering flame, her freckles among the stars. Her memory was everywhere, in every place I’d ever received a letter and read them in her voice, laughing and imagining and falling into a friendship I hadn’t realized my soul needed.

Until it became too much. That friendship became something else, sneaky and growing and deepening until it pulled its mask off at that damned ball and revealed it wasn’t friendship at all—or rather, it was and so much more.

It was dangerous, lethal and intangible.

It threatened to steal my focus from my people, and that could never happen. I would never allow it to.

So, I left. I steeled myself and bit my tongue like I wanted to sever it and choke on my own blood, so I wouldn’t have to choke on the feeling tightening my throat. I ignored her. I darkened the sky every day, allowing only enough sunshine for the vegetation to survive. I avoided the stars and Iaso’s flowers and the flames in every fireplace. All I did for those six long months was work. I worked and worked until my very bones were tired, and I could sleep a dark, dreamless sleep.

It was my cycle—distraction, sleep, distraction, sleep—and it worked.

Until it didn’t.

It wasn’t even her who shattered my perfectly curated routine. It was Evander. Fucking Evander and his damned ring.

But then she’d said yes. Her. The woman in the orchard. Elora Stirling. Sun ray. The one full of laughter and sugar and warmth and unabashed bravery when it came to her feelings. She remained true to herself; she always had, yet I’d seen the look on her face. She was losing herself in that moment.

No, not losing.

Sacrificing.

For what, I didn’t know, but that wasn’t even why I took her. As much as I wished it was—because then at least I could tell myself I wasn’t a self-serving asshole, as Elora had so eloquently put it—it simply wasn’t.

I took her because I was selfish. Because in that moment, I’d rather have had her angry with me than happy with him.

I should’ve let her marry him. Hell, I essentially pushed her into his arms, then had the inconceivable audacity to steal her. I kidnapped Elora Stirling like a fucking thief in the night, a villain, like a selfish, merciless, bloodthirsty king who saw nothing beyond his own wants.

That was the one and only time I’d done something for no other reason than myself, because I wanted to.

And it was foolish.

Now, I was facing the consequences: her.

When I’d spotted her this morning, seated at a table in the breakfast room and staring off through the window, seemingly lost in her thoughts, I turned on my heel and exited the inn to grab breakfast elsewhere.

A thought occurred to me as I left, and my chest ached as it always did when I was reminded of her. It’d been decades since her passing, but that pain never left. It dulled, sure, became more of a hollowing ache, but at least it wasn’t the sharp, piercing pain that stole my breath and flooded me with devastation.

They say time heals all wounds, but I knew that wasn’t true. Some wounds were meant to stay, if only to remind the living world of their existence—a permanent memorial and warning.

Stepping into a local shop, I grabbed two pastries and a few stems of woman’s revenge: a simple white flower that resembled daffodils. However, their sap, when carefully removed, was a poison commonly used by women in the olden days, hence the name. It had to be ingested to kill the intended, but women were sly and men were foolish.

Like this, however, unless someone pulled the stamen out and licked it, they were harmless—harmless and beautiful.

And they were her favorite.

The walk to the cemetery was quick, too quick for my liking, as the hurt in my chest grew with each step closer. When the ancient metal gate came into view, I had to pause to take a deep breath, clutching the paper sac and flower bundle in my hands.

Her gravestone was visible from here, a simple white stone, polished and shining in the morning sun.

My hands shook, but I continued forward, hurrying through the gate and down the path, afraid that if I slowed even a fraction, I would turn around.

It wasn’t until I reached her that I finally halted. I’d carved her face into the stone over two hundred years ago, and it still looked exactly how I remembered her—warm and caring, with a dusting of freckles. Her long hair no longer held the soft yellow pigment, but her eyes, one green and one blue, were still faintly colored, just enough to distinguish them.

I swallowed hard, my appetite gone, but sat where I was and pulled the pastries from the bag. I couldn’t come to visit her and not eat; I could practically hear her threatening to whip me from the other side of the veil for merely considering it.

My eyes burned as I laughed to myself. I knew she would be nearby, sensing my presence. “Good morning, Mama.”

I took a large bite of the cinnamon roll while laying the other one at the base of her headstone alongside the flowers. These specific flowers being her favorite had always been a running joke between her and Father.

“I’m just waiting for the day she decides she’s tired of me,” he’d say with a grin, echoed by her laughter.

She would inevitably reply with, “If that day were to come, I think I’d end you in a more spectacular way than simple poisoning. Don’t you think you’d like to go out in a show?”

He’d wrap his arms around her and kiss the top of her head. “I believe I’d like anything dealt at your hands, sweet Ara.”

I’d seen that exact scenario dozens of times, and it flashed through my mind every time I came to visit. I couldn’t escape their happiness, no matter how many years passed, and it somehow made the lack of it so much more painful, so much more glaringly obvious.

A child, even grown, never expected their parents to die. Of course, everyone died at some point, but not parents, not in the mind of their own child. No, they were supposed to be invincible.

“Everyone dies,” she’d said in an attempt to soothe me, chuckling as she did so, which only set off another round of coughing, another spray of blood into her napkin.

I had heard that same statement too many times to count over my long life, but hearing that and understanding it were two entirely different things. Then, watching the significant other of said parent grieve the loss of their love… That was something no one prepared me for.

It was like watching his soul wither and die while his body refused to follow. The pain in his soul was so utterly deep and visceral that it changed him in every aspect—mind, body, and soul. He became a shell of a person, alive but not, tethered to this realm by the sheer determination of his beating heart. Merely breathing, barely eating or moving, and never smiling.

Watching my father grieve my mother was the hardest thing I had ever experienced, worse even than her death itself. That had been long and drawn out, but when it was over, it was over, and she was gone. We could bury her and mourn and eventually, begin to live again, even if her death left a hole where she should have been.

But his? His temporary death had been excruciating. The way he roared for her still rang in my ears sometimes. Mother had embedded herself in his soul, and when she died, she ripped part of him out with her, leaving him wounded and bleeding where no healer could ever dream of reaching.

He changed that day, that year, that decade, but in time, he mended in a way that allowed him to breathe. The stitches were crude and weak at best, disintegrating at the mere mention of her, but at least, he was alive again…mostly. At least he could leave his bed, change his clothes, eat and drink, even smile occasionally.

He was managing in any way he could.

He changed, and so did I.

Approaching footsteps sounded behind me, and I turned to see Father holding a sack of his own. His eyes darted to the cinnamon roll on the ground before meeting mine, a soft laugh drifting from him.

“Morning, you two. Seems Vaelor beat me to breakfast today.” He lifted the pastry bag, giving it a light shake, before taking a seat beside me. “That sketch of Elora was spot on.”

My head whipped to him. “What?”

“I met her this morning at breakfast,” he mumbled through a bite of cinnamon roll and lifted his hand to gesture around his head. “With all that red hair, I recognized her immediately. Although, she’s shorter than I thought she’d be.”

I stared at him, an uncomfortable knot forming in my gut. “Ah.”

“Ah?” He quirked a brow at me, swallowing his food. “That’s all you have to say? ‘Ah?’”

I averted my gaze to Mother’s face, still smiling like she always had, as she always would be. “What else do you want me to say?”

“Perhaps why she’s here, Vaelor, in Nautia, in Ravaryn.”

I closed my eyes. A warm ray of sun fell over us, and I exhaled slowly, reminded of Elora’s touch once again.

Glancing to Father, I cleared my throat and told him everything from start to finish. His face gave away nothing, no reaction, which was unusual for him and made the uneasiness grow in my chest.

“And you intend on avoiding her,” he repeated back to me.

It wasn’t a question, but I answered regardless. “Yes.”

He stared flatly for a split second before smacking the back of my head. “That one was for your mother. This one”—smack—“was for Elora. What is wrong with you?”

I gawked at him. “I know. Trust me, I know. She’s…changing me, though. I can’t.” I shook my head. “I risked the welfare of my kingdom for this. It was reckless and foolish. Dangerous.” Clouds rolled on the horizon, swelling and darkening, but I looked at Mother as I spoke, because I wanted to say these words to her. I wanted her to hear them and hear her voice in return. I wanted to feel her arms wrap around me in a hug only a mother could give and tell me exactly what I needed to hear. “I became dangerous because of her, and it will not happen again.”

Father was quiet for some time before I finally looked at him, his expression unreadable, but his eyes, as silver as mine, were…sad. For the briefest of moments, I wondered if they were merely a reflection of my own.

He didn’t touch on anything I’d said. Instead, his gaze turned to his mate’s, meeting her stone eyes, as he whispered, “I want to talk to her too.”

With that, his gaze went distant, reminiscent of his grieving days, and I had to look away, the sight unbearable, digging up unwanted memories of my own.

Clouds filled the sky, a drizzle falling over Nautia, the air chilled as raindrops fell like tiny pricks of ice. I stared upwards, letting them hit my face for a few minutes, wishing they could wash away the tightness in my chest before sending it away. The storm dissipated as I rose to my feet.

Rays of sunshine cascaded over the freshly soaked graveyard, making the greens greener and the browns darker. Nature became more vibrant, despite the soft waves of steam rising from the ground as the sun warmed it all.

“I’ll see you later,” I muttered, placing my palm on Father’s shoulder. He didn’t respond; I knew he wouldn’t. He never did when he fell into his past.

Today was our last day in Nautia before we left for Draig Hearth tomorrow, and I wanted to stop by the Oasis one last time to check in, so I turned in that direction—the opposite way of the inn.

The streets were full to the brim with people strolling and laughing, the shops’ bells constantly ringing with customers coming and going. A few waved or stopped to speak with me, but I couldn’t focus on any of them, which made the knot of guilt grow and twist.

These were the people I risked for Elora, innocent lives turned into a bargaining chip. My gut rolled again, and I swallowed hard, continuing toward the Oasis.

Fauna’s white hair glinted near the containers of feed when I entered through the front gate and rolled my sleeves up. Humidity clung to the town after the rainfall, and within her wooden gate, the lack of airflow left it feeling thick and stagnant in the sun’s heat.

“Well, hey there.” She beamed when her head popped up, her green eyes bright and hair nearly glowing, in stark contrast to her brown skin, rich and dark from years on the coast.

I released a silent sigh. “Put me to work, boss.”

A laugh bubbled from her, and she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand as she stood, rising to meet my eyes at a solid six-feet tall. “You sure you wanna work? Wouldn’t wanna callous those soft, artisanal hands of yours.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, but my thumbs felt along my palms; they were not soft. Lifting a brow, I hooked a thumb at the door behind me and took a half step toward it. “Would you prefer I go?”

“No, no,” she said, waving a hand through the air. “We have a new volunteer today, and she might need guidance, or at least company. She seemed excited, though. I put her with the horses, just to feed and brush them out for now.”

A sinking feeling in my chest told me I knew exactly who was here, but I didn’t want to believe it. Why? Why would she be here? Can’t I have one place to escape? I stifled a groan of frustration, feeling the pricks of guilt again. She wouldn’t even be in this kingdom if it weren’t for me.

“You sure you don’t need help with something else? I can muck more stalls or?—”

“Muck more stalls? How many do you think we have, V?” She chuckled, shaking her head as she lifted the two feed buckets and strode past me, the scent of decay wafting from them. I held back a gag, and she laughed louder with a shrug. “Creatures of night eat too.”

“Any other animals to feed?” Desperation bled into my voice, but she didn’t seem to notice as she walked away with a bucket in each hand and her back to me.

“Nope! Just the horses. Go,” she shouted over her shoulder.

That was one thing I greatly appreciated about Fauna: she didn’t treat me like a royal. When I was at the Oasis, I was just another volunteer for her to put to work. She respected me as much as she did any other person, and I respected her more for it.

I turned my face to the sky, clear and blue—as blue as the eyes I would soon greet.

Fauna kept a dozen horses, split into two pastures. Perhaps I could slip into whichever field she wasn’t in and miss her entirely. I let that foolish hope guide me down the path toward the fields, one half closed off by a dense forest, the other half meeting the ocean. The gate was loosely tied, easily pushed open by a curious snout, and I let out a long groan.

Definitely Elora.

Several buckets of feed were lined up outside the gate, but the horses were nowhere to be seen. Usually, they’d be lined up at the fence, attempting to push their heads through the gaps in the wood to get a taste of the grain just outside.

My brows furrowed as I held a hand up over my eyes to block the sun and glance out over the fields. Out in the middle were a group of at least six horses, some grazing the green grass, some lying down, but I saw no Elora.

I unlooped the crudely-tied knot and swung the gate open, the hinges groaning. With a quick glance back at the horses, I turned to the hinges, finding them partly rusted, and made a mental note to return with vinegar and sand.

I closed the gate and tied a proper knot before striding toward the group. Her soft voice reached me long before I saw her.

“And with his long sword, the brave knight swung down, slicing the rope. The basket of apples fell to the ground, rolling across the grass.”

She paused, as did I, my feet frozen and eyes wide.

“Would you like that, Patchy? An apple or two?” She laughed. “Or ten? Should I return with some?”

Patchy?

“The girl joined the knight then, giggling as they plopped down, surrounded by mares, and together, they all feasted until the sinking sun cast them in glowing embers, the day long and…”

I didn’t catch what she said next as my eyes fell on her, and my ears stopped listening, ringing instead. My hands itched for paint, a pencil, charcoal, any medium to mark this image on paper.

Patchy was a paint horse, splotches of brown and white scattering over his large body, lying flat over the thick grass, his head rested in Elora’s lap, her legs folded beneath her. Another horse had settled down beside them, sitting up but seemingly listening, the rest standing and grazing around her.

She ran a hand down Patchy’s neck, smoothing his coat, while her other hand held the small children’s book she read from.

I turned on my heel and strode away. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

I made it ten measly steps before I heard, “Wryn?”

I didn’t stop.

“Are you avoiding me now?” Her words were barely audible, but they reached me, carried on the breeze. They wound around my heart and threatened to snatch me back.

I paused and looked over my shoulder at her without meeting those devastating eyes. Bitterness filled my mouth as I replied, “Yes.”

I vaguely saw her sit up straighter, the book falling to the ground beside her, but I turned and strode toward the fence with a burning chest. By the time I unlatched the gate and shut it behind me, my lungs were on fire.

Any air that entered burned up in the flames of panic, utterly useless. I braced a hand on the metal bar, my knuckles turning white from the force, my eyes darting around.

Calm.

A darkness on the horizon threatened to swirl again, and I fought it off too, refusing to let the growing storm reveal my inner torment.

Calmer, I corrected. Anything calmer.

Closing my eyes, I listened.

Birds chirped somewhere.

A slight breeze whistled through nearby trees.

Waves crashed—constant, steady, rhythmic.

My eyes opened to watch them, counting each small roll of water against the sand. Relief found me slowly, loosening panic’s grip on my rib cage, and I sucked in a slow breath, reclining on the gate.

We had to leave today. I needed to get away from her and fall into a routine again. I needed duty and obligation to numb this feeling. I needed distraction.

At least at Draig Hearth, I could stay away from her. I knew the rooms and passageways like the back of my hand and wouldn’t accidentally run into her every time I turned a corner.

With renewed determination, I stalked back to town, bought another horse, as the escaped one had not returned, and alerted the others.

Father wanted to stay behind and visit a while longer, but the rest of us were leaving.

Soon.