19. Our Jungle #3
"Elena." His thumb moves slowly over the dim circle of light on my finger as though he could wake it.
"Let go," I whisper.
"I will. In a moment. I want you to hear the rest first."
"There's more?"
"You will bear many children with me. Not all at once. Over the years. These are also gifts."
My mouth is dry. My heart is doing something strange in my chest, and I can’t tell if it is panic or if it is the Stone, and I can’t tell if there has ever been a difference.
"How many?"
"As many as the Stone asks for. One son, certainly. Daughters are rare and precious, as I told you. We will want as many of those as the Stone grants."
"We."
He holds my wrist a second longer and then lets it go.
"You are angry," he says.
"I’m not angry," I say. Too fast.
"You are."
"I said I'm not—"
"Elena." He says it like a correction. "You are angry, and you are afraid. I am not telling you what to feel. I am telling you what is true so that you can be angry about the right things."
“And why are daughters precious?” I ask, voice trembling and brittle.
His face shifts, just a little, and a hint of tenderness slips through. “They are the future of the Reach. They bring alliance, peace, and strength. And more children.”
I feel my hands curl into fists, anger and fear mingling inside me. “So you’ll just… assign them to other warlords? Like they assigned me to you?”
He doesn’t flinch at my challenging words. “If that is what is decided. If the bond is there.”
I think of my daughters being born here, raised for a future they never chose, their fate sealed by a piece of rock and a planetary need for stability. It’s not personal, it’s just the system, they’ll say. Like that’s better. But systems don’t care whether they break someone.
A rush of blood hits my ears. “And what if I don’t want that for my children?”
His calmness never wavers. He seems immune to everything crashing through me. “You think this is cruel. But it is order. Without order, there is only war. Like you left behind.”
I lean against a wall, shaking. The urge to cry is strong, but I hold it down.
“You make it sound so reasonable.”
He gives a half-shrug and takes a drink from a cup. “The plan was made after many mistakes. Perhaps this one is a mistake, also. But it is the plan.”
I look up and meet his gaze. There is no malice in him. Only certainty.
I straighten, sudden and graceless. “I’m done eating. I need a room. Alone.”
Rythar narrows his eyes, displeased. “My bride shares my room. My bed.”
“I’m not sleeping in your bed.”
“There is one bed. My bed. Now it is our bed.” He says it patiently, like he’s educating me rather than negotiating.
"Then you can sleep on the floor."
"Elena," he says, as though I’m the one being unreasonable.
My name is in his mouth like a warning. I know it and I keep going anyway. "I said the floor, Rythar. You can take it, or I can."
He sets his cup down. Very carefully.
"We will continue this inside," he says quietly.
"I'm not going inside with you."
"Yes, you are." Rythar exhales once, then moves. He scoops me up efficiently, one arm locking around my thighs, the other bracing my back. I barely have time to gasp before I’m hauled against his chest.
“Put me down,” I snarl, pounding uselessly at his shoulder. “Not again!”
He strides across the rooftop, boots striking stone.
I struggle harder. “You can’t do this every time I disagree with you!”
His fingers tighten, but he keeps moving.
The door to his quarters seals behind us. Only then does he stop and set me down. The moment my feet hit the floor, I shove at his chest. I may as well shove a wall.
“Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t ever do that again. You think you can win every argument by carrying me into your bedroom!”
“No.” His voice lowers, and his eyes bore into mine. “I chose speed over patience. And order over spectacle.”
He turns on his heel and crosses the room, hands folding behind his back.
“This is our bed,” he says quietly, speaking more as if to himself than to me.
My body stiffens. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
“You are sleeping,” he corrects. “With me nearby. Very nearby. That is all.”
“It’s not late yet,” I protest. “We only woke up a few hours ago.”
“You are tired. I am tired. We need rest now.” He sits on the edge of the bed, back to me, shoulders tense beneath the weight of his own certainty. “This ends here,” he adds. “Not because you are wrong. Because if it continues, it will become something I do not want.”
My chest tightens. “And what’s that?”
He lies back, arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Answer my question first, Elena. Why did you give me the antivenom?”
“I don’t know!” I lie.
Rythar doesn’t react.
The choice is clear. It’s the bed, or the floor. I’ve slept on worse than stone. But the bed is comfortable.
I’m getting soft.
I climb onto the far side of the bed, curling as far away as possible. He doesn’t move.
When I wake hours later, his arm is draped over my waist. I let the warmth of him seep through the thin fabric between us.
My fingers hover near his forearm, unsure. I could move it. I don’t touch him, but I don’t move away either.