Chapter 32 #2
Elias turns, never dropping his hand from Kieran entirely, as if his secret lover is an apparition that could disappear if he doesn’t tether him to this plane.
“What the fuck?” I ask Cal when the others disappear inside.
“I don’t know,” he says, rubbing a hand gently across my upper arm. “Let’s hear him out first and then we can decide if we’re going to kill him.”
The corner of his mouth turns up in a playful smirk that elicits an unexpected chuckle from somewhere within me. “Fine, but let me do the talking.”
The home is small, the space crammed with a faded settee, a worn armchair, and a rickety dining table with four mismatched stools. Thick drapes cover the broken glass, all that remains of the window panes. The new, expensive fabric blocks out the candle light that illuminates the compact room.
“You all must be starving. I made stew.” Elias Klein motions for us to sit at the table. A steaming cauldron hangs above the small fire, the smell causing all of our mouths to water. We sit at the table as he passes around a decanter of red wine and bowls of the hearty concoction.
“To Lady Ivy,” Elias says, raising his wine glass in a toast. “May your endeavor here be successful.”
“What are you playing at?” I ask boldly, dropping my spoon. The hot broth splashes onto the table as I push up to stand. “Are you here to sell us out? Is this foreshadowing to your fickle allegiance?”
“Ivy.” Kieran grunts out a warning I refuse to heed.
“You were the most prominent member of the former king’s council. You never once spoke up for me or spoke out against Marks’ tyranny. You supported the crusade against Synal, for gods’ sake. But here you sit, hiding me in your supposed safe house. Toasting my ‘endeavors’ and wishing me success.”
“He is on our side,” Kieran growls, his anger evident as he rises from the table to meet my challenge.
“You just believe that because you’re fucking him. Elias Klein has only ever cared about saving his own ass.”
Fury possesses me, magic building in my veins as I round the corner to come face-to-face with the man that I’ve debated more times than I can count. Of all the people in Amale who might be considered a covert ally, Elias Klein isn’t one of them. He’s not even on the list of possibilities.
“Only a fool would choose Marks,” Elias scoffs. “Four aevus governors changes everything about Corinth.”
If Cal notices that I’ve borrowed a thread of his magic, he makes no indication; he only watches intently, never interfering and letting me decide the fate of these men.
I don’t use much, just enough to squeeze the water within Klein’s blood. Not enough to kill him or to satiate the shadows that hover in the corners of the room, but enough to show him what I’m capable of. A small taste of the rage burning in my veins.
“Do you think I will spare you, Elias? That if by some miracle we manage to eliminate the Lord General, that I would what? Allow you to retain your seat on the new monarch’s council instead of taking you out with the rest of the trash?”
Elias squirms uncomfortably as I increase Cal’s power.
“Back. Down.” Kieran spits each word through gritted teeth, his restraint fraying.
The air in the room constricts slightly, a piss poor attempt to use his meager magic. Bright red blood leaks from the councilor’s nose as his panic-filled eyes silently beg for help.
“Do you think your lover can save you from my wrath?” A menacing chuckle escapes my lips. “He can’t even save himself.”
With a flick of my wrist, Kieran’s blood coats his own face, a perfect mirror of Klein’s appearance.
Cal grabs my arm, his fingers lightly digging into my skin. The water magic I’m wielding skitters under his hold, but it doesn’t leave me. The captain leans in close, his mouth brushing my ears as he speaks low against my skin.
“I won’t stop you from killing them if that’s what you want.” He pulls back, his gray eyes finding mine in a knowing stare. “But it would be advantageous for us to let them live.”
In a single exhale, I let go of Cal’s power, releasing the hold on Kieran and Elias. From my peripheral, I can see them rush to each other, but I don’t hang around long enough to be chastised for my behavior.
There’s an old wooden door off to the right that I’m almost certain leads to a bedroom.
I rush towards it without hesitation, silently praying it’s not a closet.
Sweet relief fills me when I discover the cot-sized bed that nearly takes up the entire room.
It’s not a closet, but it’s the size of one.
Flimsy shutters squeak open as I inhale the night air in a desperate attempt to clear away the anger that I let consume me.
Anger has always been my go-to emotion. It’s the first to appear in every scenario, no matter the occasion. And when the irate wave recedes, tears follow in its wake. No matter how hard I will them to stop, my watery weakness shows up without fail.
The salty smell of the coastal air fills my nostrils as pressure builds behind my eyes.
Every time I close them, the image of my pregnant mother walking into the ocean floods my vision.
There’s only one reason she would show me that.
One reason that touching the ebony core of Cal’s magic manifested it.
There’s a hint of leather on the salty breeze and I know at once I’m not smelling the ocean anymore.
“I don’t need a scolding.” I say without turning around, swiping the evidence of my emotions from my cheeks.
“I know.”
“I’m not sorry,” I add with a bite.
“I know that, too.”
The sound of creaking metal followed by two heavy thuds has me spinning around. The captain sits on the edge of the bed unbuttoning his shirt, his boots resting beside his sock-clad feet.
“What are you doing?”
“Going to sleep,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Here?” I ask, looking at the bed barely large enough for one person. “In my bed?”
“We’re attempting to kill a god tomorrow. I’d rather not sleep on the floor.”
“It’s the day after tomorrow, but I get your point,” I sigh. “I guess you can stay.”
Cal’s presence will be a welcome distraction from the thoughts that haunt me.
At most, I have two nights left in this realm.
I know it’s not right to lead him on, to let him believe that there’s a future where we coexist, but underneath the callous exterior, the poisonous nickname, and the stubborn will, there’s a person who just wants to spend her last moments pretending.
Cal scoots towards the wall, leaving room for me to sit to remove my own boots. He doesn’t push me to speak, nor does he ask what overcame me at the table or at the window. He’s just there. Solid and stable.
I inch under the thin blanket, careful not to press too close to Cal in the cramped cot. We lay there in silence, the only sound in the home the steady breathing of the man beside me.
But sleep evades me, and I can’t quiet the question that sits heavily on the edge of my tongue. “You really wouldn’t have stopped me?”
I didn’t funnel my magic into him. I only borrowed a thread to use as my own. He can’t stop the former, but he’s stopped the latter before when I asked. I know he’s capable of it even if he tries to deny it now.
“No.” In a swift motion, Cal props himself on his elbow, his face hovering inches above mine. “Killing our allies may not be the smartest military strategy, but I will never deny you your desires.”
I swallow thickly under the weight of his stare. “None of them? No matter how ill-advised my desires might be?”
“Not a single one.” Thick fingers grasp my chin, forcing me to look into his sleep-heavy eyes. “From your holiest to your most depraved, all you have to do is whisper it and I will make it reality.”
His thumb drags over my bottom lip as he removes his hold on my face. We’re talking about murdering someone, about allowing myself to be overtaken by emotions and elements that have no business ruling me. I shouldn’t be turned on right now.
My entire life has been a performance. The poisonous heir, the bitch heretic. Roles created to portray whatever version of me best served the narrative of others. But I don’t have to perform with him, this truly powerful man who isn’t just saying pretty words.
I know, without a shred of doubt, that his words are absolute truths. Whoever I choose to be in my final days—a rebel, a vengeful god, a murderer—Callan Murphy’s devotion will not waiver.
“Have I told you how sexy you are when you’re wielding my magic?” he whispers against my skin.
“It doesn’t threaten you to know that I control it?”
“To know that my power is flowing through your veins? Fuck no. Every single part of me is yours, Ivy. Use me. Command me.” Cal’s lips brush delicately across mine, his next words a whispered prayer. “Destroy me.”
Our lips crash together with a fervent hunger that no mortal could ever satisfy.
I cannot love him.
I cannot have a future with him.
But I can have this: one last taste of what might have been had our destiny not been written to end in destruction.