Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Kong
I, Kong the Unbreakable. Take you, Tuscany of The Strait, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death.
This is my solemn vow.
Until we are parted by death—vows I made to her in that museum church hold more significance for me than those I took when I was ten.
For me, they don’t stem from an old-world religious viewpoint but resonate within my core self.
What am I if I am not hers? I will commit to them with every fibre of my being.
My inner creature vibrates with the authority of those words.
With my arms crossed over my chest, I stand in the quiet corridor, listening intently to the subtle movements coming from inside her room. I have conditioned myself to function on four hours of sleep, managing my fatigue as if it's a test of endurance.
I haven’t seen Cairo or anyone recognisably his scout. He may be gone by tomorrow or not; either way, I don’t want her to worry. I’m not leaving her side. Hopefully, he concludes whatever business he has and leaves, never burdening her with his presence.
I focus on the purple wall ahead, using my ears instead of sight, but my mind throbs with thoughts of her.
She balances on the edge of control. I wish I could pull her to safety.
I saw her fragile mental state almost crumble when I told her I couldn't lie with her tonight.
She almost fell apart, wanted to lash out, cut me off; abandonment is a threat to her very heartbeat.
I saw it. I recognised it. She has done it to me before, many times. It is her defence mechanism.
That didn't happen this time. I didn’t let it, and neither did she. Together, we stopped the fight-or-flight from consuming her. I know how quickly she splits; rejection is a literal knife that severs her feelings into compartments.
My ears prick. Suddenly, I hear light footsteps approaching from within her room. A subtle rap seeping through the gap under her door. I sense her body pressing against it, then sliding down the wood to the floor.
"I can't sleep," she murmurs softly, her voice husky, sleep still clutching at it.
With a heavy sigh, I press my palm against the floor and settle down, legs stretched out in front of me. “What’s on that beautiful mind of yours?”
“You were shot,” she states.
My gaze shifts to my shin, obscured by my pants. The wound underneath is bandaged and healing fine.
“It was a tranquilizer, little queen. No need to concern yourself,” I offer.
She scoffs, irritation clear. “In the future, I demand that you inform me if you are ever injured.”
A soft chuckle escapes my lips, unable to resist her commanding tone. I can't help but love when she asserts her authority. “As you wish, little queen.”
A long pause carries us through the following several minutes, but I can tell by her breathing that she is not asleep against the door. No one talks. No one has to. I can practically hear her mind.
“You know me quite well,” she finally says. A hint of vulnerability creeps into her voice. “You seem to hear my silence. I was dreaming before…”
She begins but leaves her sentence unfinished, like a fragile thread.
This is a familiar pattern for her—she opens a dialogue yet hesitates to share without some form of reciprocation.
Having been interrupted, belittled, and silenced throughout her life, this method of conversing serves as her way of asking, ‘Do you even care?’ ‘Should I even bother speaking?’ It’s as if she is testing me, gauging whether I am interested enough to encourage her to continue, or will I leap out of the conversation at the nearest exit.
“A Nightmare?” Yes, little queen. I am listening. I am here. Always. “You didn’t stir,” I say, making sure she knows how carefully I am listening, how safe she is.
“It wasn’t a dream. Not a nightmare,” she clarifies, her voice almost a whisper. “It was a memory.”
“Tell me about it,” I urge, my tone filled with genuine interest.
I sense her relax. “It was about my father. I saw him holding that vase—the one containing my womb. Did he feel anything, do you think? He seemed so mechanical at that moment, as if he were merely a machine executing code. How did I come from the lineage of Turin of The Strait? I am so different from him. We couldn’t be more different.
I know nothing of the Silk Girl who birthed me, but I believe she was unlike the one who gave birth to Rome. ”
Oh, little queen.
“Your father was a product of his engineering. A pure Xin De. The last of his kind,” I explain, my voice steady.
“By the end of his reign, he had been modified to the point of being nearly fifty percent synthetic and titanium. But he would have been a boy once—like Rome. The years changed him. They built him up and stripped him of his humanity. You know he chose me himself?”
“You are the best.”
A warm chuckle escapes me. “I defied him, and yet he took me anyway. I often reflect on that day, and I like to believe that somewhere within that inhuman man, he wanted me to challenge Rome. He wanted me to teach him. I’ll never truly know why he chose me, but perhaps it was his last shred of humanity—a gift for his son.
A Guardian who would not bow to…” I lower my voice, cautious of eavesdroppers. “The Trade.”
A sad silence falls through the door, then she whispers, “My father was a monster, Kong.”
“Oh, little queen, all men are monsters.”
“You’re not,” she asserts.
I shake my head, even though she cannot see me.
“You haven’t seen me defending your brother at Breaker Ledge.
There are different types of beasts in this world.
The kind that thrives on destruction and pain, and the kind that grows as a result, develops to protect others.
” I pause, aware that she doesn’t want me to soften her perception of Turin.
She needs him to be the enemy; my little queen requires her father to be the villain.
“Does this insight into your father make you feel better or worse?”
“I don’t know. I have to put him in a box so I can move on.” Her voice kills me—so raw, so full of vulnerability. “He is all bad. He has to be. He is evil.”
“Okay, he is evil,” I confirm.
She exhales deeply, a sound heavy with release. “What are your vows? The ones you took in front of him and Cairo?”
Fuck. I haven’t uttered them aloud in decades.
I clear my throat. “For The Cradle, I will guard my lord, guide my lord, and die for my lord. I will be his solace and his shield. Nothing will break my loyalty—not the weakness of the heart nor the greed of the flesh. I share my lord’s life, morals, priorities, and enemies from this breath to my last.”
Huh. They lack so much power in this moment. They don’t hold my soul the way they used to, don’t seep into my muscles. Not like the ones I took today. The ones to her. I choose my little queen, but that doesn’t lighten the betrayal stacking on my shoulders.
“You have nearly died for my brother,” she whispers softly.
“Many times,” I admit.
But I will die for you.