Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
“Do you understand now?” Reave's voice sounds oddly far away. “You've already been bound to another.”
I back away from him, searching for something solid to brace against. I end up colliding with his desk, my shaking hand slipping several times before I finally manage to grab the edge of it.
“H-He's…dead,” I stammer, tucking my chin toward my chest and closing my eyes to combat the spinning room and my growing urge to vomit. “So it doesn't matter.”
“I don't think so, Arowyn.”
When my stomach finally stops churning, I lift my head and stare at him. He hasn't moved from his place by the wardrobe. His expression is conflicted as he starts to take a step forward only to stop—like he isn't sure if closing the distance between us would make things better or worse.
I'm not sure, either.
I turn my attention to the letter, unfolding it and skimming the first few lines:
You have my thanks for keeping my bonded one safe. I will consider it a remittance toward all that Mouren owes me and my kingdom.
Unfortunately, there's still a great deal left for you to pay.
And unlike my predecessor, I prefer to settle debts much more personally.
The words themselves don't truly register, but the pen they're written in, the perfectly neat, small, and slightly slanted letters…
It looks like Mal's handwriting.
Gods, it looks like his fucking handwriting.
The same handwriting I used to obsess over when I was younger and stupider, when he would write letters every single day and leave them in the flower box outside my bedroom window even though we only lived across the street from one another.
Because letters were more romantic, he said, and he was always doing silly little things like that.
Pressing dried flowers between the folded pages, dousing the parchment in my favorite scents of vanilla and cinnamon.
All the care and tenderness and promises he put into those letters…
Was all of it a lie?
A trick?
I trace the mark on my left wrist, falling into the memory of him pressing it into my skin. We did it in secret, in a candlelit room above a tavern at the edge of Halvgate, the only witness a traveling cleric who claimed to have authority in such things.
I still vividly remember the way Mal held so tightly to my hand while he drew the mark with a strange, slender instrument—something between a pen and a blade with a tip that burned as it glided over me.
Even now, I remember the astonishment I felt as I stared at the soft glow blooming beneath my skin, warming away any pain I felt.
The excitement that trembled through me as the same glow lit up his skin, his mark, as he spoke beautiful words over both of us.
Words I didn’t understand, but which I assumed were simply vows in the Dralsk tongue.
This was all part of an old tradition in his kingdom, he told me.
His mother and father allegedly had the same proof of their devotion to one another—and I believed him when he told me this, too, because I never actually met any of his family.
They were all killed by Meira's soldiers when they fled the north kingdom.
Did they flee for political reasons?
Did Malachi truly have a claim to the Dralsk throne?
How massive and twisted is this web of lies?
The urge to vomit slams through me again, stronger than before.
“This can't be real.” My voice doesn't sound like my own. I'm someone else, someone who isn't here, living this moment, because this can't be real. “He wouldn't have done this without telling me. He wouldn't have put this mark on my body. He doesn't want to use me—he loved me. You're wrong.”
Reave doesn't say anything to this. He just slowly turns back to his wardrobe and continues to dress for the day, going through the motions. An attempt to stay calm, to keep up his usual stoic and steady demeanor.
I understand it.
I usually do the same thing when the world tilts, after all; one foot in front of the other, all the way to the end of the road, even when that road is breaking and crumbling and going up in flames.
But for some reason, the attempted normalcy just makes me furious.
I'm tired of pretending things are okay when every hour brings some fresh new horror with it.
“You're lying.” I fold the letter over and over, my hands shaking as I make one tight, angry crease after another, like I could make it small enough that it couldn't hurt me.
“You're a liar, Reave Callahan. You always have been, and you're lying right now.
This is all some ridiculous scheme you've come up with, and I'm not…”
He stops in the middle of buttoning his shirt and looks up at me, his gaze steady and patient and unbearably devoid of the mischievous trickery I want to find in it.
I know he's not lying.
I still shake my head, swallowing hard. “I'm not falling for it.”
I don't know where I'm going—I'm still in my damn night clothes—but I don’t care; I storm toward the door, suddenly desperate to be anywhere but here, doing anything but accepting any part of this latest horrible truth.
Reave moves faster, blocking my exit.
“Get out of my way,” I snarl.
His steady expression doesn't change.
Anger swells until it fills every inch of me, and I'm swinging for his face before I even realize I'm doing it. It's an exhausted, feeble attempt. He easily catches my fist and holds it away from him.
“Let go of me!”
He only grabs my other arm, immobilizing me further.
“Let go!”
“No. Not until you promise me you aren't going to run off and do something foolish.”
“Like what? What could I possibly do?” My voice cracks, and my heart feels like it's in danger of following its lead, splintering into sharp pieces that cause a terrible stabbing pain in my chest. “What am I supposed to do about this?”
Reave's grip softens, relaxing and drawing me inward rather than holding me at bay. And I want to stay there. Oh, how badly I want to just stay there and bury my face against him and never look up again.
But I can't.
“How long have you known?” I ask, my voice still fraying at the edges.
“I told you…I only had suspicions before now.”
“And you didn't think I would want to be informed of those suspicions?”
“Arowyn—”
“No more secrets, you said.” I draw back, forcing myself to look him in the eyes. “This counts as a fucking secret, Reave.”
He sighs. “I wanted to be sure before I said anything. I wasn't going to put you through this if there was no reason for it.”
I take a step away, fists clenching, fingernails digging into my palms—just enough pain to keep me present.
“I was trying to protect you,” he says.
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can.”
“I don't need protecting.”
“That isn't the point.”
He looks as though he's going to say more, but at that moment we're interrupted by a knock. Reave tenses at the sound but doesn't answer it, his eyes never leaving mine.
The person on the other side of the door is insistent.
When the knocking turns to a more frantic pounding, Reave curses under his breath and finally calls out that he'll be there momentarily.
Shifting his attention back to me, he says, “I have things that have to be taken care of. But we'll talk more soon.”
“I don't want to talk.”
“Then I'll just let you throw more punches at me, if that will make you feel better.”
“…It might.”
“It's settled, in that case. Consider it a date.”
I know he's trying to coax a smile out of me, but I can't bring myself to give it to him.
He closes the space between us, reaching to brush a hand across my cheek, his touch lingering, heavy with uncertainty even as he says, “We'll figure this out. I swear it.”
I don't know how we possibly could. But I also can't find the will to argue, so I give a small nod and let him go, standing aside in a daze as he finishes getting ready to leave.
He kisses me goodbye, pausing with his hand on the doorknob just long enough to glance back and say, “Eat something. Rest. I'll be back as soon as I can.”
I manage another nod.
The room feels empty and wrong once he's gone.
I quickly decide I can't stay in it. It's too confusing to be surrounded by his scent, his books left open on the table, his reading glasses still folded beside the breakfast tray. Too hard to look at the bed we slept so peacefully in, to be reminded of how I woke up so warm and so happy and so—
In love.
I can't think of a worse time or situation in which to realize this, but I can't deny it anymore.
I came here to ruin him, and I fell in love with him instead.
I knew it the moment I woke up and saw him sitting in the sunlight this morning.
That feeling of peace sinking into every part of my being…
that was my final surrender. Some part of me knew it had happened long before this morning, I think, but I simply wasn't ready to admit how much I'd changed, or how much I'd gotten wrong about him.
Some part of me was afraid, too, knowing the complications that would arise if we gave into the growing feelings between us.
But even in my most horrible visions of our future, I never could have predicted the complication of the letter I now hold in my hand.
I grab some clothes from the stash I've started to build in one of Reave's wardrobes, dress quickly, and leave the room in a rush, trying to outrun my thoughts.
I don't want to be alone with those thoughts when they do catch me, so I make my way toward Briar's room, holding my head high and avoiding eye contact with everyone I pass, determined not to let them see how close I am to shattering.
Briar isn't in her room. I check the library, our favorite sunny parlor, and several other places, all to no avail.
Forcing myself to keep my composure, I make my way outside to the stretch of yard where I've been practicing magic, hoping to find her there, spoiling Sesca with more treats.
I'd even be relieved to see Kestrel at this point.
The yard is empty.
My head throbs as I stare at the grass rippling and twisting in a wind that's becoming more blustery by the second, heralding an incoming storm. Holding my whipping hair out of my face, I scan the grey skies, searching for the familiar silhouette of my dragon.
Sesca is nowhere to be seen.
I try reaching out through our bond, directing thought after thought toward her, but—
Nothing.
The throbbing in my head gets worse. Soon it's moving into my chest, pressing in like a fist closing around my heart, and a feverish trembling begins overtaking my entire body.
Shock, I tell myself.
All of the bad news I’ve endured is finally catching up to me. I'm past the point of what I can handle mentally, so it makes sense that my body is starting to buckle under the excess.
By the time I make it back inside, however, I can barely walk straight—and I'm beginning to fear that something else is wrong with me. Something beyond shock and exhaustion. I can't explain it. I only know that it's getting harder and harder to breathe.
I stumble as far as I can through the palace, stopping frequently to catch my balance.
The halls twist and stretch away from me, every destination I try to reach sliding further off as I approach it.
As my vision starts to fade, I catch sight of a figure at the far end of the corridor.
I can’t see well enough to tell who it is, but I try calling out to them anyway.
Help.
I don't think the word actually leaves my lips. But I feel myself slowly collapsing, and that catches her attention.
“Lady Arowyn!”
I'm on the ground. Cold marble underneath my cheek. Footsteps pounding closer. Hands frantically moving over my body, checking it for injuries.
More footsteps.
More voices.
More hands, and then I'm being lifted into the air.
I blink, and then I’m somehow in my room with blurry figures leaning over me, talking in hushed, hurried tones.
“Inform the king,” I hear one of them say.
Don't, I try to reply. He has enough to worry about already.
But again, I don't think my words are actually making it out of my mouth.
So no matter how many times I try to tell them I'm fine, it does no good.
I'm trapped in a body that's becoming increasingly like a grave—silent and cold and still—and soon a shroud of darkness is pulling itself over me with what seems like a terrifying finality.
I don't know how long I lay entombed in that darkness before I manage to open my eyes again, to see a bit of pale, watery light filtering through the curtains. It lasts only a few seconds before the darkness surges back and swallows me up again.
Over and over, I try to fight my way back to the light.
“Still here,” I whisper, every time I manage to get my lips to form the words. The stubborn greeting of the Burn coming back to me when I need it most, reminding me that if I can just take another breath, if I can just open my eyes one more time, it means I’m not dead yet, and I can keep going.
Still here, still here, still here.
And eventually, I'm here to stay.
Awareness trickles back. My eyes open and stay open. My body feels distant and unfamiliar, but at least I can feel it. And the first thing I notice about it is a small, sharp pain on one of my fingers—the finger that bears the ring Reave gave me on the first morning I arrived in the palace.
I lift my hand, blinking until I get my eye to focus.
The ring is gone.
There's dried blood winding a trail down my finger, across my palm, little drops of it dribbled over the silk sheets. And in place of the king's ruby is a freshly carved mark: a circle with six tapered points bursting outward.
I bolt upright, nearly losing my balance and toppling to the floor. Horror seizes my breath and briefly stops my heart as the meaning behind this new mark settles into me.
Someone did this to me while I was sleeping.
What else did they do?
How could I have slept through it?
I want to scream. To scrape away the mark and all the skin around it until there's nothing left for anyone to lay claim to. But I manage to stay calm, to take one deep breath, and then another, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes until the impulse passes.
Then I notice what's sitting on the bedside table.
A bouquet of flowers, most of which are blue verbena.
The same flowers I'd planned to decorate with on my wedding day.