32. Ayna
Ayna
Clio isn’t half as understanding as I remember her. When I ask if she’s seen Silas the next morning, she rolls her eyes, demanding whether I’ve gotten over myself and stopped wallowing in self-pity. Then, she points toward the training grounds before she stomps away. It’s a bit childish in my opinion, but who am I to judge? I’ve spent ten days behind closed doors, not speaking to anyone in a way that could be considered sociable.
Stuffing my hands into the pockets of my linen pants, I make my way to the training grounds, determined to get Herinor’s words out of my head by confronting Silas about his age. Not that I know what I’m asking for, but the way Herinor bled gives me curse-whiplash, and I really don’t want the grumpy warrior to suffer. It’s enough that I’m suffering.
And Myron. But I don’t think that because his name alone is enough to make me want to cry.
In the arena, Silas is wielding his sword against an imaginary opponent, the calm of a cleric on his features and the steadiness of a tree in his legs.
“So, you made it out of solitary confinement,” he mocks by way of greeting.
I sit on the lowest of three wooden logs stacked in the corner next to the rack of training swords, careful not to catch my toes on one of the gashes that must be etched there from testing the blades of sharp weapons. At my back, the stone benches rise high enough to block out the low-standing morning sun and, a few feet to my right, a gap wide enough for five men to walk shoulder to shoulder that serves as a side entrance. “Not really. But your friend mentioned I should talk to you.”
Silas turns his head without stopping his flow. “Myron?”
His name tears through me like the hatchet on Silas’s belt. “The friend I mean you’ve known for much longer than the King of Crows.”
Silas chuckles. “There’s only one bastard alive whom I call friend and who’s lived longer than the King.” He drops the tip of the sword to the dusty ground, bracing his hands on the pommel. Sweat drips down his temples and neck, making his hair stick to his skin. His chest is slick with perspiration where his shirt clefts open over his pectorals .
“You shouldn’t be looking at me like that, my queen.” He inclines his head. “Myron won’t like it.”
Caught, I shove my hand through my hair, fingers getting stuck in my braid, and awkwardly glance at the ground before his feet. “Like what?”
Silas chuckles. “Like you’re ready to peel my shirt away.”
“I’m not… I wasn’t…”
He laughs as I blush bright pink.
“It’s all right, Ayna. You’re undergoing the stages of un-mating trauma.”
There it is. Like a slap in the face, the words ring and ring and ring in my ears. “Un-mating trauma,” I repeat. It sounds right but feels wrong.
“Erina tried to un-mate you, that fucker.” He brings his sword over his shoulder, resting the flat of the blade right above his collarbone as if he’s carrying a sack of grains.
“What do you mean, tried ?” Don ’ t let the hope flare. Don ’ t let it. “He burned a fucking hole into my flesh. There’s nothing left of the mate mark.” And it won’t fucking heal. I don’t need to add that last part. Everyone who wields healing magic in Recienne’s palace knows I’m walking around with a giant hole in my shoulder, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
“He did a thorough job, I have to admit.” Silas raises a brow. “I don’t know who told him about un-mating, but I’m happy to decapitate them the next time I see them.”
The murderous humor in Silas’s words is both comfort and shock. “Un-mated. Is that what we are?” My hand wanders to the edge of my bandages, aching to feel Myron’s mark on me. Aching for the tingling sensation that comes when I turn my focus on it. Then I remember it’s no longer there.
“To a degree, yes you are.”
My world tumbles.
“And in a way, no.”
His dark eyes pierce into mine when I try to comprehend which of the two is true. With a quick leap, he’s sitting beside me, ramming his sword into the log right beside my left foot. I cringe and nearly fall off the stack, but Silas stabilizes me with a casual hand. “No need to jump off the ledge, Queen of Crows. Even if you feel like you can’t tell left from right at the moment, it takes more than an angry human king to sever a sacred bond such as the one between Myron and you.”
The breath I take might be the first full one since the Flames shoved the torch into my flesh.
“So, we’re still mated.” I don’t phrase it as a question for fear he’ll answer with a decline.
“Technically, yes.” Lower lip pulled between his teeth, Silas gazes at the cloudy sky.
“ Technically ?” My shoulder is hurting, but I’m ready to shove him off the logs if he doesn’t speak. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That it takes more to sever a gods-given bond than clearing away the mark of one partner.”
A sigh sweeps from my lips—relief? Confusion? I’m not sure. It’s something other than the numbness that’s been dominating me for the past days. But the knowledge that there’s still a bond between Myron and me doesn’t feel as soothing as it should. “Then why can’t I feel him?” I avert my eyes as if the Crow King himself were sitting next to me. “I can’t even look at him.” The admission tears a hole in my heart. The most beautiful male in the world, and I can’t bear the sight of him.
“They burned away your mate mark. Your body is in shock.”
It feels more like I don’t have a body at all.
“It will take a while before you go through the stages of un-mating, even when you’re not technically un-mated.” When I throw him a questioning glance, he specifies, “They used to do that on occasion, the ancient Crows, before the curse, when they were unhappy with a pair.” Without warning, Silas reaches for the collar of his shirt and pulls the sticky fabric over his head.
“What are you?—”
“Look.” He lifts his right arm over his head, angling his body so I can see the inside of his bulging bicep.
It’s a tiny scar, roughly the size of a Tavrasian silver coin, but it’s clearly a burn mark.
“I was a young male. A hundred and ten perhaps. She was about three hundred years older. Her family didn’t approve, so they came for us in the night and tied us to a post when we fought for our lives. We thought they’d come to kill us. That would have been more merciful than what they did.” He gives a bitter laugh. “Turned out they only wanted the bond broken.”
I don’t breathe, terrified of whatever he’d share and terrified he’d stop if I interrupted him.
“It took me a solid seven years to start talking afterward. Dahlia never recovered.” He lowers his head. “She went into the waters and never returned. ”
My heart is breaking, cracking wide open for the sarcastic warrior whose side I’ve fought at, whom I’ve feared and hated. Who’s become a friend just like Clio and Tori.
“I’m sorry.”
Silas lowers his arm, fingers locking around the handle of his hatchet so hard his knuckles turn white. “After ten years, I started noticing every female’s tits and spent a solid decade fucking my way through Neredyn.” His eyes wander to his bare chest then to me as if to remind me of the way I’d ogled his muscles earlier.
“I’m not going to?—”
“Of course, you won’t. Your body merely thinks you’re no longer mated. It’s fast-tracking through the un-mating process until you find the leftovers of your mating bond.” The ‘ obviously ’ is something he doesn’t need to add. “They tried to separate more pairs than you can imagine in the old days, out of spite, for sport, politics, jealousy. Not all Crows were as valiant as Myron and Royad. Our people were uncivilized brutes, and the gods had a point to curse us.”
I don’t ask the crimes he committed. It’s enough that I know about Herinor. For now, I’m just grateful that I still have a piece of Myron within me.
“What can I do? Will I start randomly climbing males?” Because I honestly don’t want that. I want Myron. And I want to be able to look him in the eye and see that there is more than the emptiness devouring me from the inside.
That costs Silas a barked laugh. “If you do, I’d love to be there to see Myron tear the poor male’s head off—and other body parts. ”
“Not helping.”
Silas’s face turns serious again, but his eyes are still dancing with humor at the thought of me rubbing myself against a male and Myron dismembering one for it. I don’t care. If this is a known process, I need to understand what to expect and make sure I don’t do all the things Silas said he did.
“It’s the way of nature to make sure we carry on if our mate is taken forcefully. It puts us back on the market.”
The pause that follows is heavy and loaded with unspoken truths of his past, all those things he’s been locking in behind a fence of sarcasm and snide, grumbled comments. This male isn’t the cold-hearted warrior I believed him to be; he’s a victim and a survivor, and he’s learned to hide his pain so well the world believes him to be a monster while he grins and lets them.
“Does it ever hurt any less?”
All humor is gone as he meets my gaze. “It never stops hurting. But that’s me.” His throat bobs. “You and Myron have a future ahead. You merely need time for the wounds to heal. And I mean that literally.” Without warning, he pokes the edge of my bandages, pressing the fabric into the open injury. “Your mind is stronger than you believe. A bond is not only in flesh; it’s in your mind as much as it is in your soul. All you need to do is face it.”
“And by it , you mean him ?” The thought alone makes my knees go weak.
“How did you guess.” Silas gets to his feet, ready to march off, but I’m not done .
“Is there anything else I need to look out for? Any spontaneous enamoration syndrome or gut-wrenching pain I should expect?”
Turning on his heels, Silas raises his brows at me. “What happened with Dahlia and me was a tragedy. It happened more often than not that the un-mating failed, and when it did, the reunion was something even the most experienced of Crows only spoke about in hushed voices.”
“What does that mean?” I follow him a few steps down the path leading from the arena, waiting for an answer I can work with.
“I don’t know, Queen of Crows. You tell me when you figure it out.”
I’m stumbling through the gardens, mulling Silas’s words over in my mind, when Recienne pops up, blocking my path with his tall, broad form.
“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Genuine concern tugs at his features, and he’s offering an arm, obviously under the impression I’ll collapse any moment. I sure feel like I’m on the verge of exhaustion. My shoulder is throbbing, my heart is aching, and … there is this tingle in the pit of my stomach when I glance up at the Fairy King, meeting his golden eyes.
Beautiful eyes... And his mouth. Full and soft and?—
A mental slap on my wrist reminds me that this is the process of un-mating. I’d probably find the statue of a horned and hoofed fairy attractive right now if put face to face with it if Silas is to be believed.
“Everything all right, Your Majesty?” Recienne gives a charming bow of his head, and when I don’t respond, says, “Let me take you back to your room.”
With a broad, masculine hand, he encloses mine, spiriting me back to solitary confinement.
Only, my room isn’t solitary. Recienne bows at his waist, opening the door with a small smile. “Your King asked earlier if I’d seen you, and when I stumbled across you in the park, I thought I’d bring you back where you belong.”
He doesn’t mean the room, though; I can tell by the sparkle in his eyes.
From behind, Myron’s gaze weighs like ounces of the glimmering stone this palace is made of, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak as I bid the Fairy King a good day and tear my eyes away from his pretty face.
When I finally turn around, Myron is leaning against the windowsill, hands braced left and right of his hips and spine stiff like he’s expecting a physical blow. “Herinor said he talked to you.”
I don’t dare meet his eyes, but I do note the purple smudges beneath, speaking of sleepless nights and endless worries.
“He did.”
Myron’s cheeks are so pale I could swear he’s a ghost. But a ghost doesn’t flick his fingers to brush back my hair like with invisible fingers. I shudder under the touch, and Myron flinches .
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I—” Searching for words isn’t something I ever see the Crow King do, but he’s at a loss now as my eyes find his at last, and pain and sorrow fill the ocean depths of his.
“Erina burned my mate mark.” The anger in my voice surprises me more than anything.
Myron’s sorrow turns to fury, and from the corner of his eyes, black veins creep toward the ocean blue of his irises. So fast I can barely tell it’s there, he turns his head to the side.
His whole body is shaking with barely restrained power as he pushes away from the windowsill, swallowing once, twice. “He tried to take you from me, Ayna.” He’s fully facing me now, and I can see it in the way his gaze skims my form, up and down and up and down, that he’s not suffering the same symptoms I’m going through. He isn’t scared to look at me because he fears the emptiness yawning like a chasm in his chest. He’s burning with ire and with all the feelings that have been squandered with the heat of the torch to my shoulder. He’s burning for both of us.
“You said you’d be behind me.”
His eyes shutter with lack of understanding.
“At the estate. You said you’d hold them off and be right behind us.”
And you weren ’ t.
The thought runs deep, slicing like a sharp blade.
Myron’s anger gutters as fast as it flared. “I was going to be. We were tricked. ”
“I know.” It’s a whisper, but I take a step toward him when he leans back against the windowsill, the darkness in his eyes gone.
“Erina knew we’d be coming.”
“And he was ready to break you in the only way he knew he could.”
I don’t breathe as Myron prowls closer, circling the furniture in his path in slow, deliberate steps. When he’s five feet away from me, he reaches for the top of his shirt, undoing a button, then the next.
My breath is coming hard and fast, and I can’t look as he tugs the shirt over his head, but I have to. His chest and abdomen are perfect, the V of his muscles disappearing behind the waistband of his pants drawing my eye. Trying not to think what this is, why he’s taking off his shirt, why I can’t seem to get a full breath down, I lean against the door for support. The wound on my shoulder throbs viciously, giving me no other option but to ignore it the best I can.
By the time Myron is standing two feet in front of me, my heart is beating out of my chest, my mouth dry, and I haven’t blinked in forever. Heat rushes through my veins like a gushing river.
I’m looking anywhere but him, though. It hurts too much to remember what it used to feel like to see him like this—and what it has been reduced to.
It’s not the same. I ’m not the same. And I fucking hate Erina for it.
Instead of reaching for me, Myron turns around, exposing his right shoulder for me. “He took from both of us, Ayna. ”
Whatever I expected, I’m not prepared for the sight of smooth, pale skin stretching over his shoulder blade where the mate mark once lived.
“It’s gone,” I whisper.
Myron nods, black waves shifting so the point of his right ear peeks through them. He doesn’t turn around as he tells me, “I talked to Silas, too. He said I should be prepared to live with a few days of jealousy.”
Begging the floor to open and swallow me, I hum a noncommittal sound. “He told you about the un-mating?”
“He told me that all I can do is continue to love you. That I’m powerless before the threads of fate that were untangled.”
He stands so still I’m not sure he’s breathing, muscles so tight I believe he might start trembling if he doesn’t do something, say something.
“Are you afraid?” Because I am, and I want those emotions back—all of them. But whatever memory I recall, it is whisked away on a wave of pain that makes me bite back a moan.
So slowly I have time to look away if I choose to, he turns around, facing me fully, every mask stripped away. “I was never more terrified than the moment I realized what they were doing to you. And I’m afraid now when I see how differently you look at me. I’m scared I’ll never experience a smile on your lips again or hear a word of affection from your tongue. I’m anxious every time I step into your presence that you’ll reject me. When I sleep, it is with nightmares of you turning your back on me forever. And when I see the others talk with you, there’s a voice in my mind telling me you might be glad to be rid of me. ”
I lower my head, but Myron catches me by the chin, gently holding me back until my eyes lock with his.
“They might burn me out of you, Ayna, but they can’t burn you out of me. Ever. You’re the fabric my world is woven from, the ocean my soul floats upon. You’re the starless night and the brightest sun, and the dawn and the twilight and the storm that blends the two. No matter what they do, you’ll always be there, inside my heart.” He places his palm over his chest. “I don’t need a mate mark to tell me I’m yours.”
A tear slips from my eye. Myron catches it with his thumb, sweeping it from my cheek.
“And I’m ready to wait for all eternity for you to remember you’re mine, too.”
He doesn’t look back as he lowers his hand and picks up his shirt, inclining his head at me as he walks out the door.