Chapter 18 Rhea
Rhea
"Hail the future queen!" someone shouts, and suddenly there are hands everywhere—touching my shoulders, patting my arms, reaching for my fingers. The room spins around me, a nauseating blur of jewels and painted faces.
"Such a fortunate match," a noblewoman gushes, her voice honey-thick with envy. "The King has chosen wisely."
I can't breathe. The air feels thick, viscous in my lungs.
My gown, beautiful moments ago, now feels like a cage of midnight fabric.
I spot Vaylen across the room, his back turned rigidly toward me, and my heart splinters further.
Zephyros hums to soothe my mind as he's been doing from the moment King Craven spoke madness.
"A spring wedding perhaps?" asks a man I've never seen before.
I force my lips into what I hope resembles a smile. "Excuse me."
The crowd parts reluctantly. I slip between bodies, scanning for that familiar white hair. When did Tahr plan this? And why?!
I finally spot him near a column, observing the chaos with detached interest. He follows my approach, and I detect a flicker of something that could almost be concern before his expression smooths into practiced neutrality.
"What in all the hells was that?" I hiss, cornering him away from prying ears. My fingers curl around his wrist, digging in. "Why did you manipulate Craven into announcing a fucking betrothal?"
"I didn't, darling," he says, his voice hushed as he removes my fingers from his wrist. "That was all Craven."
"The fuck it was." My voice cuts between us like a poisoned dart. "This has your conniving fingerprints all over it."
"Conniving, huh? Is that your opinion of me now?"
I'm too angry to care about my honest slip.
He places a hand over his heart. "I swear on Heratrix herself, this wasn't my doing." His eyes hold mine with unflinching intensity, and I search for any flicker of deceit. There's none. Just a strange, bitter amusement.
"I'm quite jealous, actually." His gaze flicks to where Craven stands surrounded by fawning courtiers. "The King seems to have grown rather infatuated with you, a result of your close manipulation of his mind."
My stomach drops. "What are you talking about?"
"This can happen sometimes with those inexperienced with their Weaver powers.
" He traces a finger along my bare shoulder, and I resist the urge to shiver.
"The subject develops an attachment to the Weaver, especially one as.
.. beautiful as you." His voice lowers. "But you insisted on being the one to control Craven. "
The implications wash over me like ice water. Did I accidentally create this nightmare? I glance back toward Vaylen, but he's disappeared completely.
"And now," Tahr whispers, "you'll have to play along until we've accomplished what we came for. Unless you'd like to break the engagement and explain to everyone how their King is suddenly besotted with a woman he barely knows."
"Fuck you," I spit at Tahr, the words sharp as dragon teeth. His smug expression doesn't waver, but I've already turned my back on him.
The crowd parts for the future queen as I stride through the ballroom.
Someone reaches for my arm with congratulations perched on their lips, but my glare freezes them mid-motion.
Another noble couple steps forward, faces bright with social opportunity, but I cut them down with a look that could wither flowers.
The marble hallway stretches before me, mercifully empty. My footsteps echo against stone as I make for my chambers, the weight of this nightmare pressing against my chest.
—You won't really have to marry him, will you? Zephyros asks.
—Of course I won't.
—Queen Rhealyn has a certain sound to it, he says.
—Fuck you, too, Zephyros.
I sense amusement from him. Really? I shut him out of my mind.
A hand clamps over my mouth, and I'm yanked sideways into darkness. A door clicks shut behind me. My body slams against a cold wall. Wind energy surges through me, ready to strike—
Pine and leather. That scent.
Vaylen.
His hand moves from my mouth to my throat, fingers pressing against my pulse. In the dim light filtering through curtained windows, his face is a mask of controlled fury. His eyes burn, those yellow motes in the blue irises glowing like tiny suns.
I don't struggle. Instead, I calm down my wind power and remain still beneath his grip, meeting his gaze as his fingers tighten just enough to let me know how easily he could crush my windpipe.
"How much lower can you fall?" he growls, his breath hot against my face. "Now you want to be queen? After betraying everything and everyone?"
I say nothing. What would be the point? He wouldn't believe me if I told him this wasn't my plan, that I'd been manipulating Craven's mind and somehow created this nightmare. My silence only inflames him further.
"Answer me," he demands, voice cracking with emotion. His fingers press deeper into my throat.
Still, I remain silent. His hand tightens, and I see it then… genuine murderous intent in those beautiful eyes that once looked at me with such tenderness. This isn't just hatred. This is bone-deep loathing.
Something within me breaks. The final thread of hope I'd been desperately clinging to snaps clean through.
He's truly lost to me forever. I swallow against his grip, feeling the painful pressure of his fingers against my windpipe, shameful tears pooling in my eyes.
I don't fight back. Maybe I deserve this.
"What's the next awful thing you'll do, Rhealyn?" His voice drops to a whisper, each word precise and cutting. "Burn down Aerie Academy? Slaughter your fellow Skyriders? What depths won't you sink to?"
His eyes search mine for answers I can't give him. I've never seen such contempt on his face before. The Vaylen I knew is gone, replaced by this stranger I created.
The air crackles with energy as his eyes begin to glow, silver light swirling in them. Wind whips around us, sending the curtains billowing wildly.
I throw my head back against the wall, a bitter laugh escaping my throat, tears spilling.
Death by Vaylen's hand wouldn't be so bad, really.
At least it would end this torment, this weight crushing my chest. Maybe I should've listened to my father after all, should've married some wealthy lordling who'd have kept me as a pretty domestic trophy, displayed in silks and jewels, never knowing this pain.
Perhaps I'd have been happier that way. Ignorant.
Caged but safe from this impossible burden.
My listlessness, my surrender, only seems to infuriate Vaylen further. The hand at my throat tightens not to harm but to demand my attention.
"Don't you dare," he growls near my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "You don't get to play the victim. Not after you chose this path."
I feel his rage like a physical thing, crackling between us, matching the storm of his creation.
His hand slides from my throat, but before I can draw breath, his body presses fully against mine, forcing my back flat against the wall.
Firm muscle meets every curve of me, and the unmistakable ridge of his arousal digs into my hip.
"I hate what you've done," he whispers, voice ragged with conflict. "I hate what you've become."
Despite everything, my body responds to him—traitorous heat blooming low in my belly. His musk fills my lungs with each desperate breath. He inhales deeply at my neck, his lips barely brushing my skin.
"But I—" His words break off as his hips press harder against mine, the evidence of his desire impossible to ignore. His hands find my wrists, pinning them above my head in one swift motion.
My heart hammers wildly. This isn't tenderness. It's possession born of fury, desire tangled with hurt. I should fight him off. I should call wind to push him away.
I don't.
His breath comes faster against my skin. I feel the war raging within him—honor battling primal need, rage wrestling with desire. When his eyes meet mine, they're dark and stormy, pupils blown wide.
"This is the last part of me you'll take," he growls.
His mouth crashes against my neck, teeth grazing skin in a way that's meant to hurt. I gasp, arching against him as his hand yanks at the fabric of my gown, bunching midnight silk at my waist. My pulse races wildly, my body burning with need despite everything that's broken between us.
"Say no and I'll stop," he growls against my throat, fingers digging into my hip hard enough to bruise.
I answer by rolling my hips against his hardness. There's nothing to say. Nothing that would make any difference now.
Vaylen makes a sound—half growl, half desperate moan—and hoists me higher against the wall. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively as his hand slides between us, pushing aside fabric to find me already slick with want. He inhales sharply at the discovery, his breath hot against my collarbone.
"You want this," he says, the accusation raw in his voice. His fingers circle, press, stroke—not gentle, not loving, but knowing exactly how to make me come undone. "Even now."
"Yes," I breathe, the word barely audible. My hands fist in his jacket as pleasure spikes through me. My head falls back against the wall with a thud.
He works the fastenings of his pants with his free hand, never stopping the maddening rhythm of his fingers against me. When he finally pushes into me, the stretch is exquisite, familiar yet different in this new context of rage and desperation.
His strokes are hard, punishing. My back scrapes against the wall with each powerful thrust. I cling to his shoulders, nails digging through the fabric to the skin beneath. He hisses, the pain spurring him deeper, harder.
"Look at me," he demands.
I force my eyes open to meet his blazing gaze. The gold specks in his irises glow like tiny embers in a dying fire. His face is beautiful in its fury—jaw clenched, nostrils flared, sweat beading at his temples.
I try to kiss him—a desperate, instinctive need to taste his lips one last time—but he turns his face away. His mouth finds my shoulder instead, biting down just shy of breaking skin.
My body tightens around him as pleasure builds, coiling low in my belly. The denial of his kiss somehow makes this more agonizing, more perfect. This isn't about tenderness. This is about possession, claiming, marking.
"Vaylen," I gasp as he drives deeper.
His rhythm falters at the sound of his name on my lips. With a growl, he pulls away from the wall, taking me with him. We tumble to the floor in a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothing. My back meets plush carpet, the sudden softness a stark contrast to the hard wall.
He looms above me, muscled arms braced on either side of my head, his body still joined with mine. For a heartbeat, we pause, our ragged breathing the only sound in the darkened room. His eyes search mine, and for just a moment, I see a flicker of the Vaylen I knew—the man who loved me.
Then it's gone, replaced by renewed determination. He begins to move again, setting a relentless pace that has me clawing at the carpet beneath us. My legs wrap tighter around him, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper.
His head dips to my neck, my breasts, anywhere but my mouth. He sucks, bites, leaves his mark on my skin like a brand. I arch up to meet his thrusts, my body climbing higher toward that perfect edge.
When release finally takes me, it tears through my body like a storm. I cry out, muscles clenching around him, wave after wave of pleasure washing over me. He follows moments later, his rhythm faltering as he spills inside me with a choked groan against my shoulder.
For a few precious seconds, we remain locked together, hearts pounding, bodies trembling with aftershocks. Then, as suddenly as it began, it's over. He pulls away, standing to straighten his clothing without meeting my eyes.
I remain on the floor, my gown still bunched around my waist, watching as he rebuilds his walls brick by brick.
I pull myself up from the floor, gathering the midnight silk in my fists. The fabric slides back down my legs as I rise, covering the evidence of what just happened between us. My fingers work mechanically, smoothing wrinkles, adjusting the bodice that Vaylen's hands nearly tore apart.
He keeps his back to me as he straightens his uniform. The muscles beneath his jacket are tense, coiled like he might shatter if touched.
This is the price, I tell myself. This broken thing between us. This is what I sacrificed for power. For the chance to end the Cleansing Authority. For Embernia's protection.
I remember the terrified little girl I once was, watching my mother die because of what I am. I recall the Cleansing Authority officials who ignored the crime. I think of all the other children like me who were also torn to pieces in one way or another.
Power was always my goal. Not love. Not Vaylen.
Yet watching him now, seeing how carefully he avoids looking at me, I realize with devastating clarity that somewhere along the way, my priorities shifted. The girl who wanted only power and safety has been replaced by a woman who wants this man's love more than anything.
"Vaylen—" I begin, though I have no idea what could possibly follow.
He cuts me off with a sharp gesture. "This never happened."
"But it did, and I know exactly what it means." The words slip from my lips without hesitation. "A proper goodbye."
His shoulders stiffen further, his fingers halting mid-motion on his jacket buttons.
"I don't blame you," I continue, smoothing my hair. "Quite the opposite. I enjoyed that immensely. A good hate fuck, if ever there was one."
His eyes snap to mine at the crude phrase, a muscle in his jaw twitching violently. I've shocked him, good. Better shock than pity.
"I'm a big girl, High Prime. I can handle losing you and paying for my own choices." I gather the torn edges of my dignity around me like a shield. "I made my decisions with open eyes." Or so I must pretend.
The dim light catches on a love bite forming below my collarbone. I make no attempt to cover it, letting him see his mark on my skin. Let him remember this moment.
"I wish you all the happiness in the world," I say, meaning every word despite the jagged pain in my chest. "You truly deserve it. And I hope to contribute to that happiness by ending this cursed war."
His expression remains unreadable, those beautiful ocean eyes guarded once more.
"Goodbye, High Prime Stormsong."
I walk toward the door, head high despite the trembling in my legs, despite the evidence of our passion still warm between my thighs. My hand reaches for the doorknob.
He doesn't call me back.
I didn't expect him to.