Chapter 16 #2
The city at one a.m. wasn't quiet. Nightclub lights flashed nearby, drunk pedestrians stumbled past, taxis stopped and left. But Zane's singing—despite being off-key—attracted more and more attention. People stopped to watch, pulled out phones, started whispering.
"Isn't that the king of Moonhowl Kingdom?"
"Oh my god, it really is him! What's he doing?"
"He's singing? Uh... points for courage."
"Wait, he's singing to—is that Vela?"
Camera flashes started going off. Click click click like firecrackers. I could hear people livestreaming, posting on social media, calling friends to come watch.
I felt my cheeks burning. Not because he sang well—but because this was so damn embarrassing. A king, sitting on the street, playing off-key guitar, singing me a love song, witnessed by millions. The most absurd scene of my entire life.
"Enough." I walked over, stood in front of him, and lowered my voice. "Stop."
He didn't stop. He kept singing, eyes locked on me, like he wanted to absorb my entire being into his pupils.
"I said, enough." My voice rose. "Are you drunk? Or crazy?"
He finally stopped. The guitar went silent, his fingers hovering above the strings, trembling slightly. He looked at me, lips moving like he wanted to speak.
"I'm not drunk," he said, voice rough as sandpaper on wood. "I just—I didn't know how to make you listen. I didn't know how to make you believe me. So I thought, maybe... maybe I could use the way you care about most. Music."
I felt something slam into my heart.
"You play terribly," I said, voice colder than I meant. "Sing even worse."
He flinched, then smiled bitterly. "I know. I've been learning for five years. Got calluses on my fingers. But I really don't have any musical talent."
He held out his hands. Under the streetlight, his fingertips were covered in calluses and blisters, some places showing dried blood. Marks from long hours practicing guitar.
Five years.
That timeline made my heart plummet.
I stared at those scarred fingers, a complex emotion welling up. Not touched. Not sympathetic. But—irritated. A "why are you only doing this now" kind of irritated. Five years. You spent five years learning to play one song, but couldn't spend five minutes believing me back then?
"You shouldn't be here," I said, voice returning to its earlier coldness. "Go back. Go back to your kingdom. Your people need you."
"They need a king." His voice was low and firm. "I need you."
"You don't need me. You just need a tool to restore your voice."
His expression looked like he'd been slapped. The pain on his face was so raw, so naked, I almost wanted to look away. But he didn't retreat. He stood up, set the guitar aside, and stepped closer.
"Not a tool," he said, voice rough but steady. "I don't need a tool. I need—you. Mia."
He called my name. Not Vela. Mia.
I clenched my fists.
Just then, a black car screeched up, stopping hard at the curb. The door opened, and Ethan stepped out, face dark as storm clouds.
"Stay away from her." Ethan's voice was cold as winter rails. He strode over and positioned himself between me and Zane.
Zane frowned. "This is between her and me."
"There is nothing between you and her anymore," Ethan said, each word squeezed through clenched teeth. "You destroyed her once five years ago, you want to do it again?"
"I didn't—"
"You didn't?" Ethan laughed coldly, voice sharp as shattered glass. "You know how she spent these five years? Pregnant and alone in a strange city, singing in filthy dives, sang until her throat bled, just to earn a meal. And where were you? In your palace, sleeping with that bitch!"
Zane's face lost all color. "What did you say?"
"Not clear enough?"
"Enough, Ethan—" I reached for his arm.
Too late.
Zane's fist slammed into Ethan's face.
Fast and hard. Ethan flew backward, back hitting the lamppost with a dull thud. He grunted, blood trickling from his lip, but the next second he sprang up like an enraged bull and lunged at Zane.
They fought.
The sound of fists on flesh echoed sharp in the quiet street. Zane's shirt tore, Ethan's mouth bled, they rolled and fought under the streetlight like two beasts fighting for territory, the crowd gasping, some screaming, some shoving phones forward, flashes popping nonstop.
"Stop!" I rushed forward and tried to pull them apart. "Both of you, stop!"
No one listened.
Ethan punched Zane's ribs. Zane grunted, swung back, and hit Ethan's jaw. Ethan's head snapped back, and he stumbled, nearly fell.
"Enough!" I was almost screaming.
I turned and ran into the building lobby, grabbed a cup of ice water someone left at the front desk, ran back out, and threw it at Zane's face.
Water splashed everywhere.
Ice water ran down his messy hair, slid along his brow over his nose, soaked his torn shirt collar. He stood there, dripping wet, motionless.
He didn't dodge.
He didn't even blink.
He just looked at me, let water drip from his chin like a child willingly accepting punishment.
His left eye had a shallow cut, probably from Ethan's fist, bleeding.
Two shirt buttons gone, revealing a bruise turning purple below his collarbone.
His hair plastered messily to his forehead, bedraggled as a stray dog pulled from a river.
But he didn't dodge.
My hand holding the empty cup was shaking.
"You're insane," I said, my voice shakier than I expected. "You're fucking insane."
"Maybe," he said, voice barely audible.
The crowd kept growing. I heard people shouting "Fight! Fight!", someone squealing excitedly. Flashes machine-gunned the chaotic scene. Tomorrow morning, headlines everywhere would be this. Moonhowl king brawls in street over female singer.
I took a deep breath and tried to keep my voice steady. "Leave. Now."
He didn't move.
"Zane, I said leave—"
"I have nowhere to go."
His words stopped me cold.
"What?"
"I have nowhere to go," he repeated, voice so low it was nearly drowned by surrounding noise. "Before I came here, I left everything behind. The throne, duties, attendants, lodging—left it all. Right now, I only have a backpack, a guitar, and these bruises."
He raised his hand, wiped the water from his face, the motion carrying an indescribable exhaustion. When his fingers brushed the cut at his eye, he flinched slightly.
I looked at that cut, at the bruise below his collarbone, at the dried blood on his scraped knuckles, at his soaked shirt clinging to his frame—thinner. He was much thinner than five years ago. Sharper cheekbones, harder jawline, like something had carved away a layer.
Something inside me was loosening.
No. Can't soften.
"That's your choice," I said, voice forcing coldness. "Your path, you walk it back."
"What if I can't walk back?"
His voice was too soft, soft as a feather landing on water. But that sentence weighed like a stone, thudding heavily on my heart.
I looked at him. He looked at me.
I couldn't hear what people around us shouted. Couldn't see the flashes. The whole world seemed reduced to just us two, separated by three steps, by shattered ice and puddles, by five years of emptiness and pain.
Damn it.
Damn damn damn.
"Follow me," I said.
I turned toward the building entrance and didn't look back to see if he followed. I heard footsteps behind me—heavy, slow, slightly staggering steps—following.
Ethan called from behind. "Mia!"
I didn't stop.
"Mia, you can't—"
"Ethan," I stopped but didn't turn. "Go home. We'll talk tomorrow. Please."
Silence for a few seconds. Then I heard a car engine starting, tires on pavement, fading away.
I entered the building and pressed the elevator button.
The footsteps behind me stopped.
I turned. Zane stood outside the elevator doors, soaked through, bedraggled, like a child who'd done something wrong waiting for punishment. He still clutched that beat-up guitar, case stained with mud and blood.
"Get in," I said.
He hesitated a second, then stepped into the elevator.
The doors closed slowly behind us. In the cramped space, I could smell him—rain, sweat, blood, and a faint familiar cedar scent. That smell like a key, inserted into some locked door deep in my memory, gently turning.
I shoved that door back shut.
"Clean your wounds," I said, eyes on the jumping floor numbers. "You leave first thing in the morning."
He didn't answer.
The elevator rose. Floor numbers ticked upward. Neither of us spoke, only the elevator's hum and two people's unsteady breathing echoing in the enclosed space.
The door opened.
I walked out, pulled out my key, and opened the apartment. The entryway light was still on, soft white noise drifting from Lily's room.
I stepped aside from the doorway.
Zane stood outside and didn't immediately enter. His gaze moved past my shoulder into the interior—that warm, bright space full of life. Lily's stuffed bunny on the couch, her unfinished Lego castle on the coffee table, her crooked drawings stuck to the fridge door.
His eyes reddened.
"Come in." I took a deep breath. "Don't stand in the hallway."
He stepped inside.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
I stood in the entryway, watching his dripping figure in the middle of my living room, light casting his shadow long and longer. His shoulders trembled slightly—from cold, or something else.
"Bathroom's at the end of the hall," I said, voice staying flat. "Clean towels in the cabinet. I'll find you clothes."
He didn't answer. He just stood there, back to me, looking at the drawing on the fridge—three stick figures. An adult with a ponytail, a child with pigtails, and... a tall man with a beard.
Above the drawing, crooked crayon letters spelled: "My Family."
I felt something squeeze my heart hard.
"I'll get clothes." I turned and walked quickly to the bedroom.
The moment I closed the bedroom door, I leaned against it, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath.
I brought him home because I softened.
This was definitely a mistake.