Chapter 29 Bryony
brYONY
THE MOMENT THE tower breaks through the clouds, the Wolf’s entire body goes taut, and his arms tighten around me like he’s preparing for a fight.
“Shit.” He banks hard to the left, wings slicing through the air.
“What is it?” My fingers dig into his shoulders at the sudden change in direction.
He lands on one of the terraces, his hands firm on my waist as he sets me down. “Stay inside until I come to get you, understand?”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“We have company.” He scans the gardens below, jaw tight. “One of Alexios’ Enforcers. Someone who won’t hesitate to cut you open.”
A chill snakes down my spine, but I nod. “Okay. I’ll stay out of sight.”
The backs of his fingers brush my cheek in a fleeting caress, and then he’s gone, vaulting over the railing in a flash of golden wings.
I know I should listen and retreat inside like he ordered, but curiosity itches beneath my skin, a restless tug I can’t ignore. Holding my breath, I creep to the railing and peer over the edge.
A demigoddess perches on the garden fountain with her long legs stretched out in front of her.
Her dark hair glints in the fading sun, falling in a long braid down her back, tied off with a pretty red ribbon.
She rises when the Wolf lands a few feet away, dusting off the loose, airy dress she’s wearing.
This is a warrior? Did she get fancied up for him?
“Hi,” she says to the Wolf. Of course, her voice is pretty, too.
“Arcadia,” he greets. “You look lovely.”
I scowl down at my dirty training clothes and the dirt under my fingernails. Has he ever called me lovely?
She grins. “Don’t I always?”
The Wolf snaps his wings closed, his lips lifting in amusement. “Don’t tell me you came all this way to fish for compliments.”
“Of course not.” Arcadia steps closer, and I can’t help but notice what a striking pair they make: her silver wings to his gold, both of them with that same glittering skin. Like they were designed to match. “I wanted to make sure you were okay after the warehouse. See if you needed anything.”
Warehouse? What warehouse? My scowl deepens.
“I’m fine,” he says, his voice gentling in a way that makes something twist in my chest. “You didn’t have to check on me.”
That ugly burning sensation stabbing through my chest is new enough to irritate me, and clear enough to be identifiable: jealousy. I’m jealous of her. And when she smiles at him, I have to swallow back the growl building in my throat.
Because it’s a smile that says, we’ve fucked.
“Yes, well,” she says, “I worry when you go quiet. An annoying habit I can’t seem to kick.” She takes a deep breath as if steeling herself. “But, listen… do you still want me for the centennial? I’d ask Elias, but I don’t want to share, and his room’s too crowded for my tastes.”
The Wolf arches a brow. “There’s always Gabriel.”
“Sure,” she says with a shrug, “but he’s a decent consolation prize at best if you’re not available.”
He lets out a laugh, shaking his head. “You really know how to make a male feel special, Cady.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach. Cady.
Not Arcadia—Cady. The familiarity in that nickname speaks of a long history.
Something I can’t compete with. I shouldn’t even want to compete with it, and yet the envy is burrowing deeper, settling alongside the yearning.
That ache since he kissed me on the Duehavn.
Erasing every reminder that I shouldn’t want him, that he’s no good for me.
“I notice you’re not saying no.”
“Haven’t said yes either,” he points out.
She closes the distance between them, and I grip the balcony railing so hard it bites into my palms. Move, I think desperately. Step back. Don’t let her—
But he doesn’t move. He stays exactly where he is, letting her invade his space like she belongs there.
“Oh, come on. You’ve spent every Aethertide fucking me in the sky, against the wall, or bent over every surface. If you want to try out someone new this cycle, just say so. I won’t take it personally.”
Heat floods my cheeks, my throat working around a sudden surge of nausea as her words register. She wants him for the rut—like she has every other cycle.
Every. Other. Cycle.
In the sky, against the wall—
I can’t breathe through the emotions battering against my ribcage. Can’t reconcile the male who held me in the rain, who kissed me like I was drowning and he was air, with someone who has centuries of history with another woman.
Bent over every—
Arcadia stretches up on her toes, and I wrench my gaze away before her lips find his. I don’t think I could survive seeing him touch her the way he touched me.
It meant nothing. He was just pretending.
The words chase themselves around in my mind as I stumble into my bathing chamber. With numb fingers, I yank off my rain-soaked clothes and sink into water just shy of scalding. The calming scents of chamomile and lavender rise with the steam, but it does nothing to quiet my chaotic thoughts.
Nothing drives out the memory of his hands, the heat of his mouth slanting over mine. The way he cradled my face like I was something precious.
Why did I let him kiss me?
The rational part of my brain knows exactly why—because he was there when I was falling apart. Because he caught me and put me back together, and for a few minutes on that miserable mountain, he made me feel like I mattered.
We’re just playing pretend. Right?
“Fuck this,” I snarl, surging up from the water.
I can’t stay trapped in here with my spiraling thoughts. Can’t keep replaying the press of his lips, the scrape of his teeth, the way his hands—
No. I need to move.
I dry off roughly and yank on a thin shift. I’m not even sure where I’m going until I find myself at the library door. Maybe it’s the hush that draws me in, or the mix of smells—old paper, leather bindings, the perfume of roses. Something to focus on. To calm.
The sunset streams through the towering windows, painting the red roses twisting up the columns in shades of orange and gold.
I wander deeper into the stacks, trailing my fingers along the spines, not focusing on any of the titles. I keep seeing Arcadia’s face reaching for his. With an exhale of frustration, I jog up the spiral staircase to the gallery that overlooks the library.
A large wooden table occupies much of the space, strewn with maps and antique instruments. The far wall is covered in paintings of pastoral scenes with rolling hills, forests with crumbling ruins and castles, others of hunts and battles.
But the one in the middle steals my breath.
It’s a couple locked in a tight embrace.
Their wings touch, covered in spatterings of gold and purple.
His head is bent into her throat, her hands twisted in his hair as she arches her neck for him.
He grips her thighs hard. The details of their joining is lost to shadow, but there’s no mistaking the intensity, the desperation in their hands and bodies.
This is a portrait of hunger. And all I can think is: I want that. I want someone to burn for me like that.
Another image flickers across my mind—the Wolf and Arcadia, her silver wings against his gold feathers. Does he take her like this? Like he’d die if he couldn’t have her? Does he yearn for her?
The crackle of power announces the Wolf before the rustle of wings. I don’t turn, not when I’m this stupid with want.
“The garden’s clear,” he says softly.
I just nod, still staring at the painting. I don’t ask about Arcadia—whether he kissed her, or if he’ll go to her when the rut hits and biology makes the choice for him. I don’t ask if what happened on the Duehavn was real or just another game we’re playing.
I’m afraid of the answers.
“Do you like it?” His voice is hushed, as if he’s unsure. “The painting?”
“It’s beautiful.” My fingernails curl into my palms as I hear him move closer. “Haunting. Like they’re afraid to let go of each other.”
“These were my mother’s,” he says, right behind me now.
“She collected art and stories from all over the realms. Most of the books here belonged to her. She had this thing about seeing beauty in anything, no matter how broken or small. This tower was a private sanctuary away from her responsibilities. Where she could just… exist. Be all the messy, complicated parts of herself she had to hide everywhere else.”
My throat tightens. “The roses?”
“Were hers.” There’s something raw and aching in the words. “She loved them. Babied them. Sang to them when she thought no one was around to hear her shame the songbirds.”
Guilt floods me. All those times I mocked the overgrown gardens, it never occurred to me that he was preserving echoes of someone he loved—that letting the roses grow wild hurt less than pruning away her memory.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—”
“How could you have?” He gives a harsh laugh. “You see this tower as a monster’s lair. But even monsters had mothers once.”
What happened to her? Where is she? But I swallow my questions down, afraid of shattering this rare moment of vulnerability.
“This painting is called ‘The Lovers’.” His chest presses against my back, breath hot against the nape of my neck. “It hung in my mother’s sky garden for centuries. A pair of Celestials caught on opposite sides of an ancient feud.”
“Celestials?”
“Primordial gods. The original creators from the stars.” His lips brush my ear like he’s telling me a secret.
“There used to be more realms than just Vartena and Scillari, but the ancients fought for power and tore their worlds apart. Some say their dying magic birthed the first Eternals. The gods in this painting were heirs to warring realms. No matter how often their rulers ripped them apart, they kept crashing back together. My mother was obsessed with them. She’d spend hours staring at this piece. ”