Chapter 12 #3
Sleep refuses to come. Instead, my mind replays the moment when I first saw her, carried into our realm, half-dead, her white hair matted with blood and dirt.
Something within me had shifted then, like tectonic plates realigning, like the world suddenly tilted on its axis.
I’d known even as I watched the wolf cradle her broken body that I would die for her if necessary.
That I would kill for her without hesitation.
That I would burn down the world if it meant keeping her safe.
What kind of monster does that make me? To desire what belongs to another? To covet a bond I have no right to claim? To imagine, in moments of weakness, what it would be like to hear her call me hers?
A sudden whisper of movement yanks me from my thoughts.
I’m on my feet in an instant, dagger drawn, muscles coiled to strike, only to find Esme standing a few paces away again.
She’s wrapped in a dark cloak this time, the fabric pooling around her feet like liquid shadow.
The garment makes her look like a spirit from the old stories, the kind that lure unwary travelers to their doom with promises of beauty and warmth.
“You move like a ghost,” I mutter, sheathing my blade, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickens at her proximity.
“And you look like you’re expecting one.” She steps closer, the dim light catching on her features, highlighting the elegant curve of her cheekbone, the delicate arch of her brow. “You’re not sleeping.” It’s not a question.
“Neither are you,” I counter, crossing my arms as if that could create a barrier between us.
She shrugs, a small, elegant movement that makes the cloak ripple like water. “I saw too much death today to close my eyes.” She pauses, studying me with those unnerving, beautiful eyes. “Was it quick? The scout.”
“Quick enough,” I reply, remembering the look of surprise in Kek’s eyes, the way understanding had dawned too late.
She nods, as if she expected nothing less. “My mother used to say that death should always be merciful, even for your enemies.”
“Cashira isn’t fae,” I point out, my tone sharper than intended. “We have different philosophies about mercy.” Different ideas about what constitutes kindness in killing.
Her lips curve in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, that carries a sadness I want to erase. “And what’s your philosophy, Locke Erron? Beyond the ice and daggers?”
My philosophy is to keep you alive, even if it means you’ll never be mine.
The thought rises unbidden, dangerous in its honesty, terrifying in its completeness.
My philosophy is that I would burn every bridge, sever every tie, become the monster they already think I am, if it meant you drew one more breath.
“My philosophy is to survive,” I say instead, burying the truth beneath pragmatism. “And to complete my mission.”
“Your mission.” She tests the word like it’s a foreign concept, like it tastes bitter on her tongue. “Is that all I am to you?”
The question hits like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. I could lie, I should lie, but something in her gaze strips away my defenses, makes pretense impossible.
“No,” I admit, the word rough in my throat, dragged from some place I’ve kept carefully hidden. “But it’s all you can be.”
She steps closer, close enough that I can smell the rain-and-honey scent of her skin, close enough that I could count each silver fleck in her strange, beautiful eyes. “Because of Sam?”
“Because of everything.” I back away, putting distance between us, retreating to safer ground.
“Because you’re half-fae royalty and I’m a soldier.
Because you have a mate, and a powerful Tether, and I have my duty.
Because my father would slit your throat himself if he thought I—” I stop, cursing myself for saying too much, for revealing vulnerabilities that could be exploited.
“If he thought you what?” she presses, following me, refusing to let me escape. “Cared for me?”
I laugh, the sound bitter and sharp as broken glass.
“If he thought I was compromised. If he thought I saw you as anything more than a political piece to be moved across the board.” If he knew how completely she has unmade me, how thoroughly she has rewritten everything I thought I knew about myself.
“And do you? See me as more?” Her voice is soft, almost a whisper, but it cuts through my defenses like a knife through butter.
Gods help me, I can’t lie to her face. Not when she looks at me like that, as if she can see straight through the armor I’ve spent centuries building, straight to the heart I’ve pretended doesn’t exist.
“It doesn’t matter what I see,” I say finally, the words heavy with resignation. “It doesn’t change anything.”
She’s silent for a long moment, her eyes reflecting the moonlight like twin pools of silver, fathomless and knowing.
Then she reaches out, her fingertips brushing against my forearm, a touch so light I could almost believe I imagined it, yet it burns through leather and skin to brand me to the bone.
“Everything changes, Locke. Whether we want it to or not.”
Before I can respond, she turns and walks away, disappearing back into the ruins where Sam waits.
I watch her go, feeling as if something vital has been torn from my chest, as if she’s taken part of me with her.
Perhaps she has, the part that still believed I could remain untouched, unaffected by her presence in my life.
I remain at my post, alone with the ghosts of what cannot be, as Kasamere Forest whispers its ancient secrets around me, as if mocking my foolish heart for wanting what can never be mine.