4. Chapter Four
CHAPTER FOUR
MORTE
I spin on the fae sauntering into the tent. King Valtorious' voice slithers through the air, a cold whisper that curls around my heart like a winter vine, its chill seeping into my bones. Each word falls like a drop of poison from his lips, smooth yet laced with malice, spreading unease like a wraith creeping under the moonlight.
Using a drying spell to remove the sleet from his clothes, he looks every part the tyrant king he is known to be. King Valtorious’ eyes meet mine with disdain before a smirk pulls across his lips as he watches blood seep through the fingers I hold to my nose.
“This tent is spelled—only my son and I can leave it.” He drags a small trunk from underneath a table between the sleeping bags, and flips the lid. Rummaging through its contents, he finds what he needs. “Put these on. I don’t need to see my son half naked any longer than I must.”
Az reaches out and catches the clothes as they are tossed to him, while the king selects a set for himself. The fabric is worn but clean, and carries the light scent of sanguimetal as it wafts my way.
“And her?” Az’s eyes fix on his button-up shirt dusting the bare tops of my knees. His attention snags on the stiff peaks budding through the fabric, and the few drops of blood that spills from where I pinch my nose.
I fold my arms and scowl, ignoring the steady drip as it tracks down over my chin.
The king glances over his shoulder, his smirk deepening. “She doesn’t need anything more.”
Azazel shifts uncomfortably, darting a look between me and his father. “Right.” Always a fae of so few words.
“What are you still staring at me for, boy? Get to bed. We’re up at first dawn.” Never mind the boy is at least thousands of years old. The king saunters over to a sleeping bag and pulls it back before crawling in.
Az remains standing. “Where is she to sleep?”
“I assumed it’d be with you, seeing how you’re still mated and killed a guard for so much as getting a little rough with her.” He smirks, the expression as mocking as it is cruel. “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten how voracious new mating bonds are. Just make sure you throw up a silencing charm first.” His laughter grates against my nerves. “Once I’ve mated her and siphoned off all of her mates’ magic, we can rid you of your little mating bond before I kill her. Best get it out of your system now.”
The words rattle through my mind, but something doesn’t add up. If his plan is to mate me and siphon my magic, why hasn’t he done it yet? Why drag me halfway across the realm instead of completing whatever twisted ritual he has planned?
Azazel’s eyes harden, though that’s the only emotion that flits across his features before he schools his expression.
“She can crawl in here with me.” The king smirks, sitting up and pulling back the flap of his sleeping bag.
“Nah, you can sleep. I’ve got her.” His words are flat, but there’s a slight edge to them. He turns back to me, his eyes searching for something I’m not sure I can give. Trust between us is shattered, like the fragments of my heart that I might never piece together again. He kneels and pulls back the covers before sliding in. “Get in the sleeping bag, Morte. ”
Morte. My name sounds wrong on his tongue.
I hesitate, and a shallow breath escapes my lips as I approach the bed on bare feet. Every step feels like a betrayal to my own confused heart, but the alternatives are far less palatable. There’s hardly room for Az, let alone another person, but I inch my way inside the confines of the sleeping bag. The fabric rustles quietly as I settle beside him, both of us on our sides, as that’s the only way we’ll both fit.
His heat seeps into me and chases away the cold as the full length of his body presses against mine. My sore nose rests right at the worn hem of the blanket, and there’s a small, immature part of me that’s happy I can’t magically heal myself.
I want him to see me hurt.
But for a moment, I want to close my eyes, tug his arms around me and pretend. That things between us are real, and that he didn’t use me. That I am his and he is mine, with no pretense, no manipulation, no betrayals. But harsh, raw reality cuts through the dream like a hot blade through silk.
The fae lights flicker out, as though the fae flies have lost their magic, too.
Azazel's breath warms the back of my neck, steady and a bit too close.
He whispers a sound barrier spell, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the hum of magic between us. Then, after what feels like an eternity, his words finally find me, careful and measured, as if he's choosing each one like it might be his last chance.
“Firefly, I’m s?—”
“I said put up a sound barrier!” his father roars from across the tent, causing us both to jump.
Azazel stills, his body taut behind me. “I did,” he mutters in a voice too soft to carry far.
I blink, my mind scrambling to catch up. The spell didn’t work?
“How you got so far in the underworld is beyond me, kid, but you’re still as worthless as ever. Shut the fuck up or put the barrier up.”
I clamp my mouth shut, unwilling to speak, to let his father hear even a breath of what I want to scream. If I had my magic, I’d flay him where he lays, torching his body until nothing but ash remained.
Louder, Az recites the spell perfectly, just as I’d done hundreds of thousand of times over the years. It’s a simple spell, one even the youngest fae could cast with ease.
“Did it work?” I whisper.
“Must I do everything?” His father mutters a string of words, the surrounding air vibrating as he attempts the spell himself.
The magic shudders and fizzles, leaving the air unchanged, no barrier rising between us. I can feel it—the faint, hollow sensation when a spell falters.
Something’s wrong.
Something bigger than any of us.
“Fucking magic has been spotty for months now.” His father lays back down in a huff. “I don’t want to hear a single word.”
Azazel's breath on my neck shifts, a silent sigh that vibrates through the cold space between us. He turns slightly, creating an inch of distance as if the mere proximity could bridge the gulf of secrets and pain between us. I hear him swallow hard, his throat clicking in the tense silence.
Time drags on, the minutes stretching unbearably as I lie here, counting the rhythm of his breathing, the occasional rustle of fabric, and the faint sounds of sleet pelting the tent. My thoughts spin in endless loops, unanswered questions piling up, until I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve replayed the moment his betrayal shattered everything.
The grand ballroom. The room falling into stunned silence as the truth came out. Azazel stepping forward, the crowd parting like waves to reveal him, his face shadowed with conflict. And then Valtorious’s voice, triumphant, ringing out like a death knell: Welcome home, son.
I remember the icy floor beneath my knees as I crumpled, the roar of my mates’ rage flooding through the bond, the betrayal clawing at me from every direction. My mate, the man who had saved me, touched me, kissed me, was the enemy I had feared most. His wings, radiant and terrible, stretched behind him as he walked toward his father, each step ripping apart the fragile trust I had placed in him.
The questions twist inside me now as they did then: was any of it real? Did he ever love me? Or was I just another piece on his father’s chessboard?
He waits until his father's breathing evens out before turning me to him. The closeness of our bodies in the tight space makes every shift feel significant. Without my magic, I can’t make out his face, not now that the fae lights are out. His hand cups my cheek before moving to my nose. I’m about to rear back—as much as I can—before the pale glow of his healing magic pours into my nose. It’s a small trickle of power and takes minutes, when normally it’s only seconds.
Relief, so sweet, spreads through my flesh, taking away the throbbing ache. Long after it’s healed, he keeps his hand to my cheek, catching the tears that spill from my eyes, unbidden.
The whiplash he’s giving me is almost too much to bear. One moment, he’s a traitor who tore my entire world apart, the next he’s gently healing my wounds with the tenderness I remember from a time that now seems like a distant dream.
“Why?” The word barely passes my lips, and it comes out just as broken as I feel.
His father stirs, muttering something incomprehensible in his sleep, causing Azazel to freeze.
Letting go of my cheek, he wedges his hands between us until he’s cupping my wrists. The warmth of his healing magic eases the raw skin where the manacles rest, and I let out a sigh. This, too, takes far longer than it should.
When they’re healed, he places my palms flat to his chest, holding them there, as if to tell me something. As though this should mean something. His heartbeat thunders under my fingers.
I want to withdraw my hands, to reclaim my space and my hurt, but his grip keeps them there, a silent plea for me to listen, to understand.
And still, I don’t know if I can.