Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
RHEA
Rhea cannot explain why she just told Finlay everything.
She can’t even make sense of it herself. Why the words fell giddy from her lips, happy to be released and given to another person in all their terrible, unfiltered glory. She’s never been able to do that before with anyone. Not even Draven.
Of course, she suspects Draven has recognized the pattern by now—a formal event arrives, Rhea is forced to play dress up, and she ends up feeling like a stranger in her own skin, scrutinizing and cursing every flaw, every exposed piece of her body, whether hugged by fabric or put on full display.
But she also suspects he still is not the least bit aware of how deeply the claws sank into her.
How hard she had to work to not be swallowed by a venomous monster who whispered poison in her ear and showed her illusions in the mirror.
She certainly never told him how bad it had gotten. And she knows Tynan would have never cared enough to make him aware.
In thinking of Tynan, a plea-like hope evades her body as she prays he hasn’t noticed her long-term absence from the ball. Hasn’t yet discovered her deterioration or been made aware of her momentary slip of weakness.
Gods, the words he would have for her if he has.
As Finlay and Rhea return to the party by each other’s side, she can’t help but steal a glance at him.
After he sat with her on the floor until the ache in her soothed, he escorted her to the washroom and stood watch out front while she fixed her makeup and stitched herself back together.
Then, he simply offered her his arm and led her away from that tear-stained corridor, choosing not to comment further.
He was…gentle. Kind, even. He treated her with the sort of tenderness she was not expecting, yet deeply appreciated, having just bore to him one of the deepest wounds in her soul.
In the decade Rhea has known Finlay Fjolla, she has never known him to be attentive.
It leaves her feeling confused. Like perhaps there is some variation of the future where she doesn’t have to hate him for what he did—for telling Tynan that Draven and his mother fled from House Dalmar to have a life at her late father’s bookshop with her family in spite of promising Draven he wouldn’t, killing her father and sister in turn because of Tynan’s resulting outrage.
Of course, it never was directly his fault.
The weight of true fault has always fallen on Tynan, and she has always been perfectly aware of that.
Yet the small, murmuring voice in her head caresses her broken heart and fans her vindictive flames by humming the what ifs.
What if Finlay had just kept his promise?
What if he never told Tynan where to find them?
Her father, Atlas Brooksley, may have been able to hold her tonight and wipe her tears, while her maternal and fiercely loyal older sister, Suzumi Brooksley, rubbed her back and assured Rhea she was the most beautiful girl in the world.
Of course, Rhea knows she isn’t. But she also knows her late sister would have been capable of making her feel like she is, and at the end of the day, isn’t that what really matters?
A pang of guilt appears in her chest.
Finlay has always been the easiest target to direct all her hatred—all her boiling spite and anger—toward because she is chained to Tynan, thus leaving Draven at the mercy of all his cruel whims. She has always felt like she couldn’t afford to fully develop and acknowledge all the deep hatred she held toward Tynan, because her life was simply too interwoven with his.
But Finlay? Oh, she could hate Finlay—could put every ounce of blame on him.
Yet now, for the first time in ten years, she is questioning that. Wondering if Draven has been right all along, and Rhea has been terribly, unforgivably misguided and bitter toward Finlay.
They approach the edges of the ballroom floor right as the current song ends.
Within seconds, the strings of the violin sing a happy tune, and Finlay turns to face her.
He looks as though he wishes to ask her to dance.
In fact, she is sure he does by the way his tentative, assessing gaze glances at her, his fingers uncurling from his palm as he hesitantly extends his hand out toward her like a silent offering.
The sound of Audwin Fjolla’s voice sends that hand dropping back down like the air between them has become poison.
“Where have you been?” He looks only at Finlay, ignoring Rhea entirely.
Finlay lifts his chin, but she can see by the stiffening of his muscles and subtle flex of his jaw that he wants to wince. “I was occupied with other business, Father.”
His lip curls. “What business?”
Even through his crystal-bedecked mask, Rhea can see the coldness in his eyes as he gazes at his son. Not a sliver of warmth or a drop of endearment. Just pure, frigid contempt.
Finlay only steals a second’s glance at her before rolling his shoulders back and steadying his voice. “It is related to matters of Bathara, and so I am afraid I cannot discuss it.”
Audwin snorts. “What? You are elected onto their council and suddenly you think your worth is greater than mine? That you are afforded a rank which somehow tiers above my own?” He steps closer. “Nobody outranks me or House Fjolla, dear son.”
Somehow, Audwin manages to make the word “son” sound reprehensible.
Finlay shakes his head. “No, of course not, Father. Being on Bathara’s council is merely a step toward proving I am worthy of bearing my title as House Fjolla’s Heir. Of receiving your approval to be Head of the House someday.”
Audwin huffs a dry laugh. “That day remains far, far away. I swear, every time I see you, you only appear to be more reprehensible. More of a disappointment.”
Finlay—so schooled at keeping his features cool and neutral—looks visibly wounded. For some unexplainable reason, it ignites the fire Rhea’s soul permanently carries. The silent rage that is as a part of her as her own blood.
“Maybe your eyes are defective, then, because I think it is you who is the real disappointment.”
Audwin turns his icy attention onto her, and he cocks his head with predatory grace. “I beg your pardon?”
“Rhea,” Finlay hisses under his breath. “Don’t.”
Rhea doesn’t listen. “You don’t deserve your son,” she continues, in spite of the early death Audwin’s cold eyes are promising her. “Just as he never deserved to be born to such a shitty father.”
Audwin laughs like she’s just told the world’s best joke.
“And what do you know of fathers, girl? Do not forget I am aware of what happened to yours for his own foolish choices. If that sort of pathetic showing is what you associate with the title, then I can see why you are so misguided in your accusations.”
Rhea steps toward the man and bares her teeth. “Do not speak of my father.”
“Yet you are allowed to speak of mine?”
It comes from Finlay, and Rhea finds her mouth falling open at the realization. He steps away from her, moving to be on the side of Audwin, squaring his shoulders to her as though they are now divided by some invisible boundary.
Audwin’s lips twirl like a snake at the sight.
“I fear my kindness this evening has led you to operate under misguided assumptions. My father and I are of House Fjolla, while you, Rhea Brooksley, are nothing more than a commoner made into House Dalmar’s charity case.
You are only something because Tynan has made you so.
Because you are fortunate enough to have Draven’s protection.
But you mistake those truths as a podium elevating you to House Fjolla’s stature, when they do no such thing.
It is that blatant disrespect and misplaced sense of self which makes me hate you so viscerally. ”
At the words, Rhea reminds herself that she, too, hates Finlay. She hates him. She hates him. She hates him. And she does not respect his opinion nor care what he and his shitty father think of her.
Even if the stinging burn on her cheeks would say otherwise.
She kicks herself for allowing herself to think that she could feel anything for Finlay Fjolla other than hatred. That there might be a version of him which is redeemable.
She is an ignorant fool for thinking anything of the sort.
She could never—ever—feel anything but the deepest, most tortuous form of contempt for him. And she is more than content to stoke those flames inside her belly and burn by them.
She takes two steps forward. Until he is forced to tilt his chin down and she is forced to tilt her chin up. “Fuck. You.”
“I’m sure you wish you could,” he mutters back, condescension lacing his voice, even if Rhea notices it isn’t as thick as all the other times they spoke to each other like this.
Not like she cares.
Audwin claps his hands together, seeming amused by their exchange.
He rests a jubilant hand on Finlay’s shoulder.
Something like awe passes through Finlay’s eyes at the touch.
“You know, Tynan and I debated whether having you two accompany each other to this ball had been a mistake. Yet he was adamant that we use Rhea to extract information from you. Have her pry out the things you might be keen on withholding, given your ties and feelings of obligation to Captain Dalmar. Tynan was convinced you possess a soft spot for the girl.” Audwin huffs a light laugh.
“While that man is never wrong, he seems to have been off the mark about this.”
Finlay whips his eyes to his father. “Information? What information?”
“Regarding the whereabouts of that low-blooded whore, Lyra Izacalli.” He waves a lazy hand in the air. “Though it is not of consequence any longer. Tynan Dalmar is nothing if not a resourceful man.”
Rhea blinks at the last part. What the hell does that mean? And why the hell is she even here with Finlay tonight if Tynan already has a potential lead up his sleeve?
Finlay’s features twist, seeming too fixated on the former words to notice the latter. “I have told both of you everything I know when requested to. Why would you question that?”
“Because there is a lot I question about you, Finlay. You are well aware of my doubts regarding your competence and value.”
If Rhea hadn’t been seething, she would almost feel pity for how plainly Audwin speaks the words to his son.
Finlay nods, as if he truly does understand. Like he has been so conditioned to believe it, that there are no questions surrounding his father’s unequivocal truth.
Audwin sighs, as if he has grown bored with the conversation.
“If you will excuse me, I have a guest that will be arriving soon which I must prepare for.” He squeezes Finlay’s shoulder.
“It was nice witnessing you not be a complete disappointment this evening. I will not forget what I have seen here.”
Finlay looks like he wants to celebrate the words. Like he’s just received something he has tirelessly worked for. Yet the subtle glimmer of disappointment in his eyes says the victory of his endeavors does not taste as sweet as he thought it would. “Thank you, Father,” he murmurs.
Audwin dips his chin, and then he is strutting in the opposite direction, toward a different corridor on a different side of the lavish ballroom which Rhea knows will lead to a large chamber where powerful men frequently hold council during events such as this.
When he is gone, Finlay shifts his body toward her but will not meet her eyes.
The fucking coward.
“You were going to use me for information?” He has the audacity to sound hurt.
In truth, she was so preoccupied with her own emotional struggles this evening, she hadn’t even had the chance to ask him any questions or create an opening to loosen Finlay’s tongue.
And then, after what he did for her in the corridor, she resolved to do away with Tynan’s request completely.
She certainly wasn’t going to exploit the vulnerable moment they shared together for Tynan’s sake.
She doesn’t know what his plans are or why he is searching for the woman Draven admires so ardently, but she does know whatever it is, it won’t have Draven’s best interest in mind.
So she decided she would simply report back to Tynan that she was unable to extract any useful information from Finlay, knowing that due to Tynan’s agreement with Draven, despite his inevitable irritation at Rhea’s failure, he would not be able to act on his disappointment in a way that would cause her irreparable harm.
But Finlay doesn’t need to know that.
In truth, she receives a sick form of pleasure at seeing the hurt in his expression after what he just said to her.
After he chose his father—again—instead of standing on a different side.
A better side. And so she twists the knife, allowing him to believe the narrative she thinks will inflict him with an equal harm he just inflicted on her.
She lifts her chin, smoothing her voice into something distant and business-like. “Yes. I was under Tynan’s instructions this whole evening.”
“And that whole display back in the corridor? That was what? Some sick ploy the two of you concocted to get me to drop my guard so I’d speak more openly with you?”
No. That was real.
“Yes,” she answers instead, deciding it’s better if he thinks her deepest struggle was all some act anyways. It’ll only make her less vulnerable in the end.
Finlay huffs a humorless laugh. “Well, aren’t I the fool, then?
” His voice has grown so cold. He lifts his eyes from the floor, looking at Rhea with an expression she is not sure what to make of.
“Well done, Rhea. You played your part brilliantly, because I was eating everything you showed me back there from the palm of your hand.” He drops his voice, and Rhea nearly bristles at the pain lacing his words. “You got me. You win. Congratulations.”
She doesn’t let herself feel pity because fuck him. Fuck him for always making the wrong choice. Fuck him for turning on her so quickly. Fuck him for the part he played in the slaughter of her family. Fuck him for being such an asshole and so lost in his father’s morally incorrect ideologies.
And most importantly, fuck him for making her feel like her heart is breaking at the sight of him looking at her like that.
Yet like the self-tormentor she is, she only digs the knife deeper, piercing her own flesh in the process. “Maybe you should stop underestimating us ‘lowborns.’”
“Yeah,” he agrees in a loaded whisper. “Perhaps I should.”
He walks away, and Rhea lets him, instead turning her back to him and setting her eyes to work so that they may find anyone worthy of distracting her from the strange feeling of hurt twisting in her chest.
She moves toward the first person she sees.