Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Zane
I lay in the medical ward bed for three days. Not because the wound needed that long to heal—werewolf regeneration wasn't that pathetic—but because every day I was injured, I got to see Mia.
It made me reluctant to let the wound close.
I stared at the ceiling cracks, my mind full of scenes from that cave.
Mia kneeling beside me, tapping out a rhythm with stones, then opening her mouth to sing.
Her voice echoed off the rock walls like moonlight condensed into liquid, pouring drop by drop into the riverbed inside me that had been dry for five years.
And then I howled.
Five years. For five whole years, my throat had been like a sealed well, and her voice was the key that pried that lock open.
The wound in my chest still throbbed dully, but compared to five years of emptiness, it felt like a mosquito bite. Because I knew she was in that guest room at the end of the hall. She hadn't left. While I was unconscious, she'd stayed by my side.
On the third afternoon, I could get out of bed. The first thing I did wasn't go to my study to handle piled-up documents, wasn't go to the council chamber to calm anxious elders—it was walk toward her room.
The hallway was long, sunlight streaming through stained glass windows, casting brilliant patterns on the floor. My footsteps came faster than I'd expected, almost like running. I stopped at her door, took a deep breath, and knocked.
The door opened.
Mia stood in the doorway, wearing a simple white shirt and jeans, hair casually tied in a low ponytail.
She looked like she'd just woken up, or maybe hadn't slept at all—there were faint shadows under her eyes, but those eyes brightened when they saw me.
That brightness was faint, like someone striking a match in front of a dying lamp. But I saw it.
"You're out of bed?" she said, tone flat as if asking about the weather.
"Doctor said I could move around moderately."
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You walked about a mile. That's moderate?"
"I took a detour," I said. "Stopped to check out the garden. The roses are doing well."
She rolled her eyes, but behind that eye roll hid a trace of amusement I didn't miss. "Come in. Don't stand in the hallway like a post."
I followed her inside. The living room was tidy, a pot of lavender on the windowsill—identical to what she'd planted in that small courtyard at the palace five years ago.
Sheet music lay spread on the coffee table, marked up with pencil corrections.
In the corner sat a violin, its case carved with small letters: Vela.
She noticed my gaze, walked over and picked up the violin, put it in its case—the movement natural, like hiding something she didn't want seen.
"Where's Lily?" I asked.
"In the garden. Aila's with her." She turned to look at me. "She said you helped her build a sandcastle yesterday."
"She built it. I just provided the sand."
"She also said you two agreed to go riding this afternoon."
"If her mother approves."
She looked at me, silent for several seconds. Those eyes held an emotion I couldn't read—not anger, not resentment, but something more complex, like she was reassessing an item she'd thought was damaged beyond repair.
"Zane," she began, voice calmer than I'd expected, "about Lily—"
"I know." I cut her off, voice hoarse. "I know I have no right. I know I missed five years. I know 'I'm sorry' can't make up for anything. But I want you to know—I won't miss anymore. I won't be absent from any moment of her life. As long as you'll let me."
She looked at me, silent for a long time. Long enough that I started counting my heartbeats—one, two, three—by the twenty-seventh beat, she finally spoke.
"She asked me this morning if she could call you 'Daddy.'"
I felt my heart skip a beat.
"What did you tell her?"
"I said she'd have to ask if you were willing."
I stood there, feeling my eyes burn. "I'm willing." The words squeezed from my throat so hoarsely they were barely audible. "Of course I'm willing. I—"
I stopped, took a deep breath.
"I've been waiting for this day in my dreams."
She looked at me, then nodded. The gesture was light, like a feather landing on water, but to me it was heavier and more precious than any crown.
"Then let's go," she said, turning toward the door. "She's waiting for us in the garden."
I followed her out of the room, through the hallway, toward the garden. The sunlight was good, warm on my skin, the air fragrant with grass and roses. From far away, I heard Lily's laughter from the garden direction, clear as silver bells.
Mia walked ahead of me, pace neither fast nor slow, back straight. Sunlight fell on her shoulders, gilding her with a golden halo.
I looked at her, suddenly remembering the night we first met—at the Howling Ceremony, she stood at the crowd's edge, wearing a dark blue dress, her eyes full of starlight.
Now she walked ahead of me, leading me to meet our daughter.
I quickened my pace, caught up with her, and walked shoulder to shoulder. She didn't look at me, but she didn't speed up either. We walked side by side like that, through the garden arch, toward that sunlit lawn.
Lily stood on the grass, holding up a wreath woven from wildflowers. Seeing us, she immediately ran over, the wreath swaying in her hands.
"Mommy! Daddy!" she shouted, running up to us, stopping and looking up. "Look! I made a wreath!"
She held up the wreath, stood on tiptoe, trying to put it on my head. I bent down so she could reach. She placed the wreath on my head, then stepped back two paces, tilting her head to examine her work.
"Hmm," she said, tone as serious as an art critic evaluating a painting. "Not bad. But it'd look better on Mommy."
She took the wreath from my head and turned to Mia. Mia crouched down, letting her place the wreath on her head. Purple wildflowers and white daisies bloomed among her dark brown hair, glowing softly in the sunlight.
"Does Mommy look pretty?" Lily asked.
"Beautiful," I said, voice hoarser than expected. "Very beautiful."
Mia looked up and glanced at me. That look held no defense, no coldness, only a faint warmth like spring afternoon sunlight.
"Your wreath is crooked," she said.
I reached up to touch my head—empty. Lily had already taken the wreath away.
"You tricked me."
"Mm-hmm," she said, standing up and brushing grass from her skirt. "I did."
She took Lily's hand and turned toward the deeper grass. Lily looked back and waved at me. "Daddy, hurry! We found a rabbit nest!"
I stood there, watching their figures grow smaller in the sunlight. Wind blew over, bringing the scent of grass and flowers, and Lily's laughter, echoing through the air.
Then I smiled.
I set off and followed them.
That evening, after Lily fell asleep, I found Mia in the garden.
She sat on the fountain edge, barefoot, toes dipping in the water. Moonlight scattered across the water's surface, fragmenting into silvery-white points of light that swayed gently with the ripples. She held a glass of red wine but wasn't drinking, just staring at the water in a daze.
I sat down beside her. She didn't pull away or move farther. This was a good sign—a sign so small it was almost negligible, but more important to me than any diplomatic victory.
"Lily asleep?" she asked.
"Yes. Before bed, she asked if she could ride again tomorrow."
"What did you say?"
"I said as long as her mother agrees, I can be her horse every day."
Mia made a sound—whether laugh or mockery, I couldn't tell. "Don't spoil her. She's already starting to think His Majesty is her personal mount."
"She's not wrong," I said, watching the broken moon reflection on the water. "I am her personal mount. For life."
She was silent for a few seconds, then raised her glass and took a sip. Her profile looked especially soft in the moonlight, eyelashes casting shallow shadows on her cheeks.
"Zane," she began, voice light, "have you ever thought about if we—"
She stopped, didn't continue.
"If we what?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Never mind. Not important."
"It's important," I said, turning to look at her. "Everything you say is important."
She finally turned her head, looking at me. Moonlight fell in her eyes, turning them silver. She looked at me like she was looking at someone she'd once loved, hated, and didn't know whether to love again.
"If we hadn't separated back then," she said, "what do you think we'd be like?"
I was silent for a moment, then spoke, voice hoarser than expected. "We'd fight. We'd have cold wars. We'd both cry like idiots the first time she called 'Mommy and Daddy.' We'd both rush to pick her up when she fell, crash into each other, forehead to forehead, then sit on the ground laughing."
I paused.
"We'd be ordinary. Ordinary to the point of boring. Ordinary to the point where sometimes we'd think life was too bland, bland enough to want some waves." I looked into her eyes. "But that's what I wanted. What I've always wanted."
She looked at me and didn't speak for a long, long time. Then she lowered her head, looking at her wine glass, lips curving into a very small arc—not a brilliant smile, but something quieter, like finally making a decision about something she'd wrestled with for a long time.
"You know," she said, "I used to think that if I ever forgave you, it would be because I made a carefully considered decision."
"And now?"
"Now I realize," she looked up at me, "forgiving you doesn't need my brain's permission at all."
I felt my heart pound hard in my chest.
"Mia—"
"Shut up," she said, but her tone held no real annoyance. "You talk too much."
Then she did something that stuck all my words in my throat—
She leaned over and rested her head on my shoulder.
Just like that, lightly, quietly, like a bird finally finding its perch, she rested on my shoulder.