Chapter Forty-One
ChApter
Forty-One
The stone walls of Ivystone loom ahead, their familiar presence both a comfort and a weight pressing against my ribs. The gates are already open for us, the flickering torchlight catching on the damp edges of the courtyard as Sir Holden and I dismount, the clatter of hooves fading behind us.
The journey back from Delasurvia was swift, the road a blur beneath my horse’s hooves. But my mind was not still. It was a storm—a relentless, churning force of thoughts too tangled to unravel.
Sir Holden walks beside me as we step into the castle, his gloved hands resting lightly against his belt. He’s quiet for a moment before he finally speaks.
“Are you all right, Your Highness?”
I inhale slowly, steadying myself. “I’d like to find Dante,” I say, already turning toward the hall that leads to his quarters.
“Yes, Your Highness.” He steps back, giving me space. The mourning period is over, so there should be no reason for him to stop me, but I can feel his gaze linger as I move forward.
Because he knows there’s something wrong, but he doesn’t know what. I’ve had the theories clashing in my head the whole ride back from Delasurvia, and I’m nowhere near ready to talk about them.
At least not with anyone except Dante.
I tighten my grip on my cloak, my fingers cold despite the warmth lingering in the air. A sharp breath catches in my throat, and I force my feet to keep moving, pushing past the uncertainty coiling around me.
Because right now, I need something steady. Something real.
I reach Dante’s door and raise a fist, knocking twice.
It feels like it takes forever before he opens the door.
Dante’s eyes lock with mine as he stands in the warm glow of candlelight, his tunic undone at the collar, his dark hair tousled from sleep or thought—I don’t know which.
His expression shifts, a flicker of concern threading through the sharp lines of his face. “Something’s wrong,” he guesses.
Of course he sees it.
I hesitate, my throat suddenly tight. Then, finally, I speak. “May I come in?”
His lips part slightly before he steps aside, holding the door open wider. “Of course.”
I step inside, past the threshold, past the weight of everything I don’t know how to say yet.
But I will. Because if I don’t tell him, I fear the thoughts will cause my brain to cave in on itself.
I walk past Dante and head right for a chair near the hearth. I sink into it, grateful for the solid weight beneath me. My body feels stretched too thin, my thoughts even more so.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the quiet crackling of the fire, its glow casting shifting shadows along the stone walls.
Dante remains standing, one hand braced against the mantel, his other rubbing at the back of his neck. His eyes never leave me.
I inhale slowly, steadying myself. Just tell him.
“There are some things I’ve learned,” I begin, my voice quieter than I expected. “Some crazy, unbelievable things.”
Dante’s brows knit together, but he doesn’t interrupt.
I wet my lips, exhaling slowly before diving in.
I tell him everything. From my mother having a son before she married my father to my connection to the prophesy. I tell him my uncle’s theory about the tsar being my father and how he may have been the one who pushed my mother down the stairs to her death—or ordered it done.
When I tell him how my uncle shut down my idea to march into Dulcamar and confront the tsar to end the carnoraxis attacks, Dante doesn’t move, but I can see the subtle flex of his fingers, the way his jaw tightens as he processes it all.
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.
Dante stares at me, his mouth slightly parted, but no words come. For the first time since I stepped into this room, I think he is at a loss for what to say.
I let my head fall back against the chair, pressing my fingers against my temples. The weight of everything crashes over me at once—my mother’s secrets, my unknown brother, my father’s betrayal, the prophecy that names me as the tsar’s undoing.
The fire crackles, its warmth brushing against my skin, but I feel nothing. I’m raw. I’m broken.
Then, finally, Dante moves. He crouches before me, resting his arms on the sides of my chair. His expression is softer now, less rigid with strategy, more him.
“What do you need?” His voice is quiet, steady, grounding.
I inhale slowly, the words sitting heavily in my chest. “Could you… hold me?”
At that, Dante reaches for me, his fingers curling around my wrist as he pulls me gently to my feet.
He doesn’t say anything.
He just holds me.
I exhale against his shoulder, my fingers hesitating for only a second before I grip the back of his tunic, letting his warmth sink into me. His arms tighten around me—not desperate, not demanding. Just there.
“I’ll help you,” he murmurs into my hair. “We will figure this out.”
I close my eyes, pressing my forehead to the curve of his neck. “I know.”
Dante shifts slightly, his hands sliding up my back, and when I pull back just enough to look at him, he kisses me.
It’s slow, deep, not rushed. A reassurance.
My fingers tighten against his chest, my breath tangling with his as he lingers, as if neither of us wants to step away first.
When we do part, he studies me for a moment longer before murmuring, “You look exhausted.”
I let out a breathless laugh. “That’s because I am exhausted.”
His lips twitch. “Stay.”
I blink up at him.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You don’t have to go anywhere tonight.”
And gods, I want to stay.
But I shake my head gently. “I think I need to find Nadya.” My throat tightens slightly. “She’s my best friend. I need to tell her what I found out.”
Dante exhales, nodding once in understanding.
He walks me to the door, lingering there as if reluctant to let me go. I glance up at him, and just before I step away, he cups my face, kissing me again—soft and slow, like a tether, like a reason to come back.
When he pulls away, his thumb grazes my cheek.
“I’m here if you need me,” he murmurs.
I nod.
With the ghost of his touch still warm on my skin, I slip into the corridor to find Nadya.