Chapter 43
Sebastian
I close the cabin door behind me and stand on the porch for a moment.
That meeting went better than I could have hoped, and yet I feel hollow inside. I wish Isla would hear me out. That she would give me a chance to explain. Part of me understands why she can’t. I accused her of the worst kind of treachery.
I was wrong.
I need to apologize, to try to make it right.
I can’t do that if she won’t let me.
I walk down the porch steps. It’s warmer in the valley than in the rest of the deadlands. The sun almost gets through here.
I heave a sigh as my mind goes back to Isla. I wish it wouldn’t, but it won’t stop. She insists on going back to the Shifter Court, and there is nothing I can do about it. Nothing I can say to change her mind.
The sound of wood being split fills the valley, so I go over to behind the barn. Damon is already hard at work. The woodpile is larger than I expected.
I pick up a nearby ax, feeling the worn wood of the handle against my palms. Then I plant my feet, raise the blade over my head, and bring it down hard on one of the stumps.
The stump splits with a satisfying crack.
I swing again. And again. Until my muscles burn, and sweat beads on my forehead.
Why won’t she let me explain? Why won’t she give me even a single moment to ask for her forgiveness? I know I was wrong. I know it with every fiber of my being. But knowing it means nothing if she won’t let me say it.
I bring the ax down with particular force, splitting a thick piece of wood clean in two.
“We’ll have the whole winter’s supply done before midday at that pace,” Damon says.
I stop and turn.
Damon stands a few paces away, arms folded across his chest. I hadn’t heard him stop what he was doing. I was too wrapped up in my thoughts.
“It’s helping clear my head,” I say, my voice rough.
“I can see that.” He walks toward the woodpile, pulls his tunic over his head, and tosses it onto a nearby log. “It’s getting hot.”
The Icefae King is built like a warrior. Thick shoulders. Arms corded with muscle. A body made for battle.
“It sure is.” I agree, taking off my own tunic before picking up the ax.
We work in silence for a time. The only sounds are the crack of wood and our labored breathing.
The exertion feels good. It feels right to be using my body for something so simple. Something that doesn’t require strategy or carefully chosen words.
Damon pauses after splitting a particularly stubborn piece. He reaches for a waterskin hanging from a nail on the fence and takes a long drink, then holds it out to me.
I accept it gratefully and drink deeply before handing it back.
“Is everything alright?” Damon asks, taking another pull from the skin.
“Everything is fine.”
He raises a brow. The look says he doesn’t believe me for a moment.
“You look like a male with some serious demons, and I’m not talking about the realm.”
I make a noise of agreement.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. The work is tiring, but the kind of tiring that grounds a man. Reminds him that he has a body and that his body is good for more than just carrying around regrets.
“You seemed upset at breakfast,” Damon says, his tone careful. “Particularly when Isla mentioned leaving for the Shifter Court. I know I’m probably overstepping, but things seem…tense between the two of you.”
I pick up a piece of wood and set it on the stump. “That’s because things are tense between us.”
“You hate that she’s leaving.”
I bring the ax down. The wood splits cleanly.
“I guess I do.”
Damon makes a noise in his throat. He sets another piece on his own stump but doesn’t swing yet.
“I’ve noticed the way you look at her,” he says after a moment. “Like perhaps she means something to you.”
I freeze, ax raised over my head.
Then I lower it slowly. I stare at the ground, at the scattered wood chips and the hard-packed earth.
“I messed up,” I say finally. “She and I were getting along well. Really well. And then…” I shake my head. “I messed everything up.”
Damon waits, but I don’t elaborate. Some things are too ugly to say out loud. Some failures are too raw.
“Let me put it this way, if I could take a few things back, I would,” I continue. “I would give almost anything to undo what I did. Now she refuses to talk to me. She won’t even give me a moment to explain myself.”
Damon lets out a low breath. It’s the kind of sound a man makes when he recognizes trouble. When he’s been in that exact place himself and knows there are no easy answers.
“Give her space,” he tells me.
“How much space?”
“A lot. Leave her be. Don’t ask to talk, just observe.”
I look at him. “For how long?”
“As long as she needs.”
As long as she needs could mean days or weeks, or months. It could mean forever.
“She leaves in a few days. I don’t have the luxury of time.”
“Maybe she’ll come around before she goes. Otherwise, you’ll have to try before she leaves. You might have to wait it out and then go and see her there.”
“At the Shifter Court?” I don’t like the idea. “And then what?” I ask.
Damon meets my eyes. His expression is serious, his voice low but certain.
“You swallow every ounce of your pride, and you beg,” he says. “And you beg her to listen. You beg her to believe you, and you beg her to give you a second chance.”
I stare at him, waiting for the corners of his mouth to twitch. Waiting for him to tell me he’s joking.
He doesn’t.
“Beg?” I repeat. “I should beg her?”
“Not just beg.” Damon shakes his head. “You go on both knees. If you really love her, you will beg for a chance to explain. And you will lay yourself bare for her.”
“Bare?” I know I’m repeating everything like a fool, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
“Yes. You will tell her exactly how you feel. No holding back. Then you will beg her to give you a second chance.” He holds my gaze.
“If you are open and honest and raw, you are in with a chance. If you hold back even just a little, she will cut you down at the knees. Hopefully, you will get your chance within the next few days, and if not, you’ll have to go to her. ”
I absorb this. The ax hangs loose at my side. The morning light warms my bare shoulders, but I barely feel it.
“I fear that my window of opportunity has already closed,” I tell him.
“No.” He shakes his head firmly. “It hasn’t.” He smiles. “Not at all.”
I frown. “How do you know that?”
Damon sets down his own ax and turns to face me fully. His expression holds something that might be sympathy. Or maybe understanding.
“Because she tries really hard not to look at you,” he says. “She works at avoiding you. That means she still cares. You are still in with a chance.” He pauses. “Bide your time. Don’t take too long, though, and then…” He raises his eyebrows, urging me to finish the sentence.
“Beg?” I try.
“Yes. And?”
“Tell her exactly how I feel.”
“Exactly right.” Damon nods. “And remember, you will need to mean it, or don’t even go there.” He picks up his ax again, weighing it in his hands. “For what it’s worth, I think she cares much more than she is letting on.”
Something flickers in my chest. A spark of something that might be hope. My heart beats a little faster at the thought.
“Thanks,” I tell him, hefting my own ax.
“Anytime,” he says.
We turn back to the wood.
I raise the ax over my head and bring it down. The blade bites deep. The stump splits open.
Damon’s advice goes against everything I have ever been taught. Against every instinct bred into me as a king. As a man who learned long ago that vulnerability is weakness and weakness gets you killed.
But Isla is not my enemy. She never was.
I bring the ax down again, and the wood splits.