Chapter 30
Ididn’t knock. Just slammed the doors open hard enough that they cracked against the walls with a satisfying bang that echoed through the chamber.
Varyth stood near the window, bathed in late afternoon light that made his silver hair glow like starlight. He turned at my entrance, and his expression was maddeningly, infuriatingly calm.
“You fucking bastard.” The words exploded out of me before the doors had even finished reverberating. “You manipulative, controlling, arrogant asshole.”
“I assume you spoke with Cindrissian.” His voice was level. Like we were discussing a simple misunderstanding instead of the fact that he’d been orchestrating my entire existence like I was some kind of experiment.
“You’ve been managing me.” I stalked toward him, black fire already crawling up my arms. “Keeping me calm. Avoiding stress. Making sure I never got emotional enough to manifest whatever the fuck you think I am.”
“Yes.”
The casual admission snapped inside my chest. “Yes? That’s all you have to say? Yes?”
Varyth tracked my approach with that same infuriating composure. “Would you have preferred I lie?”
“I would have preferred you tell me the fucking truth from the beginning!”
“And then what?” He tilted his head slightly, and gods, I wanted to set that pretty face on fire. “You would have stayed? Trusted me? Let me help you understand what you’re capable of?”
The question hung between us.
“Or,” he continued, soft and lethal. “Would you have done exactly what you always do when things get complicated? Run. Take your children and disappear into the wilderness, convinced you could handle it alone.”
“Don’t you dare—”
“It’s the truth, Isara.” He stepped closer, and I hated that he didn’t look afraid.
Hated that he looked at me like I was something to be understood instead of to fear.
“If I had told you everything that first night—about the gift, about what your power might become, about why Ashterion wants you—would you have stayed?”
I opened my mouth to snarl that of course I would have, that I wasn’t some terrified child who needed to be coddled and protected.
But the words died in my throat. Because he was right. I would have run.
“I don’t need to be fucking managed,” I spat instead, shoving past the uncomfortable truth. “I’m not a child. I’m not some delicate thing that needs to be handled with care.”
“No.” His tone turned hard. “You’re someone with untapped power that could level this castle if it manifests wrong. You’re someone every court wants to either control or eliminate. You’re someone who—”
“Fuck you.” I shoved him. Not hard—barely more than a push, really—but enough to break through that infuriating calm.
He grunted.
Clutched his side like I’d actually hurt him.
I froze. The rage drained out of me so fast it left me dizzy.
“Are you injured?”
“It’s nothing,” he said, already straightening.
“Bullshit.” I moved closer before conscious thought caught up, my hands already reaching for him. “What happened? When?”
It clicked into place with sickening clarity.
Darian and Fenric. Their wary looks. The way they’d tried to stop me, tried to warn me that he was busy.
“You’re injured.” No longer a question.
Varyth’s jaw tightened fractionally. “It’s minor.”
“What happened?”
“There were remaining Nyxarian forces that had infiltrated my territory.” His answer was clipped, professional.
Like he was delivering a military report instead of explaining why he was currently bleeding in his own chambers.
“I needed to ensure they were cleared out before they could establish any permanent positions or pose further danger.”
“You nearly got tortured to death a week ago.” The words came out sharp enough to draw blood. “What the actual fuck were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that leaving hostile forces in my territory was unacceptable.”
“So you went hunting them yourself? While still recovering?” I gestured wildly at him. “Do you have a death wish? Is that what this is?”
“I’m perfectly capable of—”
“You’re bleeding.” I gestured at where his hand pressed against his ribs. “That doesn’t look like ‘perfectly capable’ to me. That looks like you pushed yourself too hard and tore something open.”
“It’s contained.”
“Contained.” I let out a laugh that was more snarl than amusement. “Right. That’s why you’re standing here trying not to breathe too deeply. That’s why you flinched when I touched you.”
His silver eyes flashed. “I had responsibilities—”
“You had other people who could handle it.” The words exploded out of me. “You have Lincatheron. Cindrissian. An entire fucking army at your disposal. But instead you decided to play hero while your body was knitting itself back together from the last time you nearly died.”
“I’m not playing—”
“You’re a fucking idiot.” I pointed at the nearest chair with enough force that black fire trailed from my fingertips. “Sit down.”
“Isara—”
“I said sit down. Or I swear to every god in this realm and the next, I will knock you on your ass and deal with the consequences later.”
For a long moment, we stared at each other. His expression was unreadable, that infuriating mask of control firmly back in place.
Then, slowly, he moved toward the chair.
Victory felt hollow when it came with the sight of him moving carefully, each step measured to avoid aggravating whatever injury he was hiding.
He sank into the chair with more grace than someone in pain had any right to possess. But I saw the slight hitch in his breath, the way his hand never left his ribs.
“Show me.” I pointed to his shirt.
“That’s not necessary.”
“Take. It. Off.”
His lips curved into a smirk. “Eager, aren’t you?”
“Varyth.”
The smirk faded, replaced by a hint of uncertainty. He lifted his hands towards the top button of his shirt, but his fingers hadn’t even brushed the hem before he winced, a breath hissing through his teeth.
“I’m... not sure I can.” His hands clenched into fists like he could squeeze the words back in.
“Let me,” I said, my hands replacing his at the buttons of his shirt.
Varyth looked down at me, and for a moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a sigh, he let his hands drop.
I worked the buttons one by one. My fingers moved deftly to the last button, and I slipped it free. I eased each of his arms out of the shirt, my movements gentle, mindful of each twinge of pain in his face.
The shirt slid to the floor. And gods help me, I was not prepared.
His body was a weapon, forged by war and discipline, honed to lethal perfection. Muscles rippled beneath his skin, built for speed and death. A fresh, deep, angry gash stretched across his chest. The edges were raw, the wound not yet closed.
My breath hitched. “Nothing?” My voice rose with disbelief. “This is nothing?”
“It is to me.” His lips barely moved around the words.
I bent closer, taking in the wound. It was bleeding, the skin around it red, irritated and clearly untreated.
“You didn’t even clean it properly.” Frustration curled in my chest.
“It’s already healing.”
“It’s actively bleeding.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “It will be fine.”
I crossed my arms and stared at him, unimpressed, as he bled stubbornness onto the floor. The amount of effort he put into pretending was honestly impressive. Stupid, but impressive.
I spotted a second door, slightly ajar, likely leading to the bathing chambers.
Without a word, I moved toward it. The room inside was lit with golden faelights, the scent of sandalwood lingering in the air.
Large basins lined one side, and along the wooden shelving, I found exactly what I was looking for.
Rags. A bucket. And on one of the higher shelves, a small collection of bottles. I reached up, scanning the labels. Herbs, oils, and what I could now recognise as soothing and healing tonics.
I grabbed what I needed, adding some soap to the bucket that I’d set to fill with warm water, then turned on my heel and headed back into the room. Varyth hadn’t moved, still seated near the fire, watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite place.
“Stay still.” I set the bucket down beside him.
I dipped the rag into the water, wringing it out before pressing it firmly against the wound.
Varyth’s muscles tensed beneath my touch, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. I worked slowly, clearing the dried blood. Despite his casual indifference, there was tension in his body, coiled and waiting.
My free hand came to rest against his abdomen, instinctively pressing him back so he could lean into the chair.
My fingers brushed over his bare skin, and a low sound escaped him.
Not quite a groan, not quite a sigh. The noise was unintentional, guttural, and it sent heat curling in my stomach. I ignored it.
“Did that hurt?” I asked.
“No,” Varyth gritted out. “It did not hurt.”
My fingers twitched where they rested against him.
That sound. That sound. It was burned into my memory now, lodged deep in my ribs. I needed to move. I needed to speak, say anything. Instead, I sat there, holding him, his skin warm beneath my palm.
Focus.
The wound. That was what mattered.
I reached for one of the bottles I’d brought from the bathing chamber, uncorking it and pouring a small amount of the herbal mixture onto a clean cloth.
“This might sting,” I warned.
Varyth hissed as I pressed it into the wound, muscles tensing beneath my touch.
“Sorry,” I worked as quickly and gently as I could to clean the gash thoroughly.
“It’s fine,” he grunted, though his voice was tight with pain.
My free hand began tracing soothing circles against his abdomen. Light, absent movements meant to calm him, meant to distract.
Another sound slipped from him, though this time it was less identifiable. I didn’t say anything, pretending not to notice the heat that crept up my neck.
“Where else?”
“I think there’s a wound on my back. And…” He sighed. “There’s another. But it’s fine.”
“Let me look at your back first.”
He shifted, allowing me to move behind him.