16. If It Were a Better World #4
Surin bent his head and pressed a kiss to her pale crown, lingering there as though he could kiss away her guilt.
"She was my only true friend," Surian whispered against him. "I wasn't afraid of Allora. I was afraid of him, of Malec. That's all it ever is."
She pulled away, hands flying up, helpless. "Everyone bows and bends. Even me."
Turning back toward the fire, she glared into the flames as if they might burn away her guilt. "And now she's gone. What if she's dead? Or sold? Or hurt somewhere and calling my name?"
"Surian."
Her father chuckled, soft but certain.
She turned, startled.
"It's Allora," he said dryly. "If Allora got captured, she'd be the one doing the capturing ten minutes later."
For the first time in weeks, a laugh cracked through her tears, hoarse and wet but real. "She weaponized a fitting room."
"Exactly." Surin's lips curved faintly, his eyes warm behind the glass. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face with the gentleness of someone who had all the time in the world.
And Surian, her face shining with grief and laughter both, allowed herself to breathe.
"But I betrayed her," Surian whispered, her voice breaking again. "I let it happen. I told myself it would be worse if I didn't play along, but what if she hates me now? What if I never see her again?"
Surin's expression shifted, the faint humor draining from his face. His spine straightened, his gaze steadying into a fatherly gravity she hadn't expected. He took both her hands in his, holding them firmly.
"Of course she'll be angry," he said simply. "You betrayed her trust."
Surian flinched, but he squeezed her hands tighter, grounding her.
"But," Surin continued, his tone softening again, "you did what you had to do. Helping her would've doomed you both. Malec would've locked her away before she could take a breath, and he would have punished you for the rest of your life. You know that."
Her eyes fell to the floor, heavy with guilt.
"It's better he trusts you, even if Allora doesn't anymore. Trust buys you protection. Power. Influence." He tilted his head, catching her gaze. "Allora's love, while sweet, wouldn't have saved her. And it certainly wouldn't have saved you."
He stepped closer, laying a steady hand on her trembling shoulder. The weight of it was comforting, paternal, the kind of touch that said I will carry this with you.
"Allora is doing what she must to survive," he said quietly. "So are you. There is no shame in that."
Surian's lips parted on a whisper. "If it were a different world, a better one..."
"Then yes," Surin finished for her, his voice low and certain. "Maybe you could have been true friends without cost. But in this world, nothing survives untouched by betrayal. Not even love."
She stood frozen in the glow of the fire, tears still glistening on her cheeks, but her sobs had stilled.
At last, she gave a slow, fragile nod.
"Still," she breathed, "I hope I see her again."
"I guarantee you will," Surin said. His hand squeezed her shoulder once before falling away. "And when you do, pray she remembers that you loved her. Even when you didn't choose her."
He pulled her back into his arms, holding her the way he never held Malec. There was no rigidity or distance here, no expectations of strength. Just a father cradling his daughter through the impossible choices their world demanded.
"You are allowed to grieve this," he murmured into her hair. "And most certainly allowed to love her still."
Surian nodded against his chest, her tears soaking into his robe, and for the first time in weeks, she felt the weight on her shoulders lighten just slightly.
Late spring had finally arrived, painting the eastern countryside in soft pastels and bursts of green. The air was thick with the perfume of earth and new life, birds weaving nests in the silver-limbed trees that lined the winding paths behind the estate.
And Allora was waddling, sweat slicking the back of her neck beneath her headwrap.
Earlier in the season she had tried to jog, tried to push her body the way she used to, tried to keep fit through the sluggish weight that clutched her bones every time the baby kicked or twisted. But now, eight and a half months in, even walking felt like war.
The stone path crunched under her boots as she pressed forward, slow and stubborn, one hand fixed against the swell of her stomach.
Her shirt no longer fit; she wore instead a tunic Kalemon had stitched for her, tied beneath her breasts with a thin leather cord.
She stopped beneath the shade of an old willow, bent slightly, her breath coming in short bursts.
The sweat on her neck chilled in the breeze, her body aching with the weight of each step.
It was beautiful here. Too beautiful. The kind of beauty that felt staged, like a painting waiting to be slashed.
Roses climbed the estate walls in perfect cascades of cream and blush.
Fountains burbled with crystalline water that caught the light like diamonds.
Everything was too clean, too quiet, too deliberately peaceful.
Like a trap baited with silk and sunshine.
She pressed her palm more firmly to her stomach, grimacing. The baby shifted, a rolling pressure that made her ribs protest. "God, I'm so over this," she muttered.
Then pain.
It ripped through her lower abdomen like a rope snapping inside her. Allora cried out, clutching her stomach, her breath catching hard.
"Shit! Not now, not yet..."
Her teeth clenched, one hand braced on her back, the other gripping the willow's bark until her knuckles blanched. The jolt ebbed, slow and lingering, but at last, it passed.
She breathed. Waited. Then forced herself onward.
By the time she reached the estate again, she was drenched in sweat, her limp pronounced. The front room was empty of Kalemon, though the scent of tea and herbs still lingered, a reminder of her careful routines. The house itself had become a strange sort of haven, a womb within a tomb.
And at the center of it all was her. Leira.
The matriarch of mystery. An Awyan with long, straight brown hair, flawless posture, and that irritating, all-knowing glimmer in her desert colored eyes—the one that made Allora want to scream, or laugh, or bolt down the nearest hall.
She had grown used to Leira's games. The teasing, the veiled threats dressed up as jokes and the goddamn philosophical riddles disguised as idle chatter. Leira was a silver blade pretending to be a fan: danger hidden in elegance, sharpness veiled in charm.
Unpredictable. Amused by Allora. Protective, maybe, but always too curious.
She doesn't know, Allora told herself firmly. She can't.
If Leira ever discovered the truth, that the child inside her was Malec’s, everything would change. The laughter would stop. Hospitality would curdle. The clever banter would shift into chains. And Leira’s curiosity might harden into ownership.
Allora's boots whispered against the marble as she moved down the hallway. The baby shifted again, pressing upward until her ribs ached, her lungs pinched. It was already taking space that should have been hers.
Her hand slid over the swell of her stomach, rubbing lightly. She muttered under her breath, "You better come out smart. Real smart because I'm out of tricks."
Should she leave? Try to push farther, cross the sea, vanish into some village where no one knew the Silver Fox, no one whispered about the dark-skinned Canariae carrying a child that would threaten Awyan society when the truth came out?
But could she even make that journey? Alone? This late in the pregnancy?
And more importantly, would Leira even let her go?
A chill threaded through her veins at the thought.
She looked up toward the stairs, remembering Leira lounging there hours earlier, sipping wine and reading a book upside down just to be contrary.
How the hell have I lasted this long without Malec catching me?
Even with all her cunning, all her paranoia, all her skill, someone was running interference.
The wards Leira had placed around the estate hummed faintly in the walls at night.
The servants were too well-trained, oddly silent and far too obedient to be normal staff.
And Leira herself moved through the house like a spider at the center of a web she'd spent years spinning.
Allora owed her life to this woman. She knew it. Hated knowing it and utterly despised the debt that grew heavier with each passing day.
Maybe I should ask her something, Allora thought. Start poking at the truth. See if she knows more than she lets on. But there was no way she knew…Allora and Kalemon knew and hardly believed it.
But her gut tightened. Poke the bear, get mauled.
Still, the question itched. How much did Leira actually know?
How much was she pretending not to know?
And when would the performance end? Allora leaned against the railing, her head bowing, eyes closing as she exhaled.
She didn't know how much longer she could carry it all: the baby, the secrets, herself.
A soft knock broke the stillness, followed by Kalemon's low, steady voice—the no-nonsense tone Allora had come to trust more than anything else in this surreal gilded cage.
"It's me. You decent?"
Allora, sprawled on the edge of the plush daybed with one arm draped across her forehead, groaned. "If I say no, will you go away?"
Kalemon entered anyway, carrying a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a worn cloth satchel in the other. "Nope."
She stopped at the foot of the bed, eyes sweeping over Allora with the practiced assessment of someone who'd been monitoring her condition for months. "You look like hell."
Allora cracked one eye open. "Thanks. That's exactly what every woman eight months pregnant wants to hear."
"Would you prefer I lie?" Kalemon set the tea on the side table with a decisive clink.