CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE #2
That carved a hole in Evylin’s heart. He couldn’t risk her, and she couldn’t risk him.
But they meant it in two entirely different ways.
His affection tugged at hers. She’d begun to feel for him all those weeks ago, something beyond camaraderie but without a proper term.
Over the course of their marriage, she’d come to find herself desirous of him beyond companionship. If Hewitt hadn’t died . . .
Setting a hand to her head, Evylin tried to stave off the ache that shot across her temples. Her chest compressed, her limbs shaking. “I can’t—” She cut herself off, trying to breathe.
Now, Deckard did reach for her.
He took hold of her arms, dipping his head to hold her gaze. “Stop,” he said brusquely, not out of anger but instruction. “Whatever you’re thinking about, stop.”
“I can’t,” she muttered again.
Every time she blinked, it was like she was back under the water, her body thrashing helplessly. She could taste the salt. Her lungs tensed. She was drowning, and she couldn’t get out.
“Evylin—” Deckard’s tone was forceful as his hands cupped her face. The cold of his palms nipped at her cheeks, drawing her eyes to his. “Stop.”
Staring back at him, Evylin’s heart lurched. Her lips parted, and her breath caught. His eyes were so green in this light, his expression so adamant. Her skin tingled where he touched her, the magic within her rousing to him. Every muscle relaxed, and the panic receded as her senses came alive.
“Warriors and Mages are meant to be together.”
Evylin jerked back. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said, words coming freely at last.
Deckard’s hands dropped back to his sides as he studied her. He didn’t seem hurt so much as surprised. “Do what?”
Desperate to be rid of him, to be safe from the mesmerizing pull he had on her magic—on her heart—she found herself reacting wildly.
“Any of this,” she exclaimed, throwing her arms out to encompass the whole world.
“Since the moment I gave the Relic back to Rafferty, I’ve been crumbling. Haven’t you seen that?”
His downcast expression confirmed that he had.
“Every moment, I feel like I’m drowning,” she admitted, the tears burning behind her eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t stop thinking about death and the fact that every single one of us is moments away from losing our lives too.”
Taking a step back, Evylin bumped into a tree. She recoiled, the world pressing in, the mist oppressive, the fog smothering. “I can’t take it anymore,” she said raggedly. “These trees are maddening. This infernal rain is—is—I can’t do this.”
The first tear escaped her, and Evylin drew in a painful breath. “I need to go with him,” she pleaded.
Deckard stood still, sorrow etched in his features. His shoulders sagged as he scanned her. She could see how it hurt him to watch her in this state. He wanted to help. He desired to comfort her. But he simply listened, giving her the space she’d requested.
Evylin almost hated him for his goodness.
Part of her wished that he wouldn’t respect her decisions so much.
She wished he’d throw aside his decency and pull her into his arms, forcing her hand.
She longed for the choice to be taken from her.
If only he weren’t so noble and virtuous, then she wouldn’t have to deny herself.
But Deckard was good. And for that very reason, she had to protect herself from him.
“I have to go,” Evylin said one last time, determination lacing her every word.
They stared at one another. He tested her resolve while she clung to it.
Deckard sighed. “Auden won’t like it.”
“He’s not in charge,” she said tightly.
Deckard gave her a disapproving frown. “I can’t do whatever I please, Evylin. King Ephren may have put me in charge, but his authority carries a little less weight now that we decided to defect. And I risk losing whatever role of leadership the Calders grant me if I push them too far.”
Evylin rejected his sound reasoning, finding her own. “Then tell him. Tell Auden why I need to go. He’ll understand. He’ll want to help.”
“It isn’t that simple,” Deckard argued. “If I let you go, then I have to let the others go too. Auden will know that, and he’ll say no because we can’t take those chances.”
“We won’t have to take chances if they don’t ask.”
“Do you think they’re any less tired of these forests than you?”
“They didn’t lose the only man they ever loved,” she shot back, more tears threatening to drop.
Deckard flinched. His eyes drifted to the trees beyond her shoulder, hovering there. After a deep breath, he dropped his gaze guiltily to the mud.
Knowing what she’d implied—that she didn’t love him—Evylin pressed her advantage on his emotions. “Jonn,” she whispered, “please.”
At her imploring words, compassion drew his countenance down. His eyes, his mouth, his shoulders, his head—all of him drooped like she’d settled the world on his back. She hated herself for manipulating him this way.
“All right,” he murmured. “I’ll talk with Auden.”
“Thank you,” Evylin replied weakly.
An uneasy distance remained between them as they returned to their companions.
With each moment that passed, Evylin’s chest expanded like an overfilled trunk, straining ever more wildly against its binds.
The tears clung to her throat. With everything in her, she longed to remove this impediment that poisoned the space between herself and Deckard.
She knew he thought she blamed him for Hewitt’s death.
But that wasn’t what kept her from taking comfort in him.
It was the knowledge that, should she allow him to become that comfort, she would put herself at risk of damning herself to desolation.
She’d survived Ryen. She’d survived Hewitt. She wouldn’t survive Deckard. Not when he was the perfect equal to her soul.
Warriors and Mages—they were meant for one another.
Evylin couldn’t bear that. And she wouldn’t let herself give in to it.
Curse destiny. She would find her own solace, free of the certain devastation that such an attachment would wreak on her heart, mind, and body. She wouldn’t be bound to Deckard in any fashion. Not so long as she might risk losing herself to him.