Abdicated

Chapter 5

Yesterday I hit the liquor cabinets, and thankfully dozed off in a matter of moments after the warm liquid hit my stomach.

The effects seeped into my dreams. I haven’t slept on such a comfortable mattress in a long time.

My head has spun me into oblivion. Oddly, the new presence lurking at the edge of my mind made the nightmares more bearable, as I was no longer alone in the battle against my consciousness.

I don’t dare to question it. If something works, then it works.

I wake to the aroma of a morning feast drifting in from the adjoining dining room: warm brioche, rich chocolate, and something else sweet enough to pull me fully from sleep.

I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it if it weren’t for the hangover tonic waiting for me on the bedside table. Jestin knows me too well.

Or was it Aidon?

“Don’t look my way. If it were up to me, I would force you to suffer through the consequences,” he says, already sprawled in front of the table, his boots on the nearby chair. Typical oaf.

“What consequences? What are you even talking about?” I shift my weight, leaning slightly against the doorframe, daring him to argue.

“Your cravings for wine?” He raises a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching as if amused.

“You saw what happened. You saw my memories. If you’d be able to fall asleep after that without a little help, congratulations.” I shrug, running a hand through my hair. “I can’t. It’s the only thing keeping me functional.”

“But you don’t use it only to sleep, do you?” His gaze sharpens, studying me.

“You don’t fancy your blood spiked with something stronger? Sounds like a you problem.”

He dares to roll his eyes at me before I’ve even had breakfast, and we both end the scowling battle, which seems strange after waking up with him sleeping as a kitten in my bed.

I must have been too hammered to protest.

“That’s how you justify it,” he mutters, clearly in a mood.

I decided not to pay him any attention and sit opposite him. A moan slips from my lips as I skim over the table full of the baking goods. If someone makes me wait, there’s a risk of saliva dripping. Seriously!

“Oh, Gorok, have I died and met you?” I whisper dreamily.

On the other hand, he won’t welcome me that generously.

Every plane of existence has a god who governs it. Gorok, the Architect, tends his Gardens, called heavens in some translations. Chaos, ever the counterpart, adds life, instability, and twists to Gorok’s creations, ruling over Limbo.

Lesser gods in training, like Jahwa, each choose a planet with a promising species to guide and manage.

I suppose Gorok and Chaos wanted to be included in the grand experiment of civilisation building, because they granted the Fae and the Ghouls flesh and with it, access to this realm, allowing them to live in the physical plane.

I push the thought away and dive into the sweet spread in front of me; cinnamon, vanilla, buttery croissants that crumble in my fingers, sugar-dusted pastries that melt instantly in my mouth.

I am in Gorok’s gardens.

Mmm.

Santorili’s sugar cane doesn’t grow in any other part of our world. The Obeskiner River enriches it with minerals, giving it a unique quality, and as a result, creating the best sugar ever. Freakishly good.

“Now I must try it too,” Aidon says, dragging his chair across the room, placing it too close to mine. I roll my eyes, but restrict myself from commenting on his mood swings.

“You just did,” he smiles, his features indicating condescension.

“What?” I snap, not happy with the distraction. He is too close and I am hungry.

He chuckles and leans even closer, reaching for my face. For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to caress my cheek, but instead, he swipes my nose. “You left something for lunch, I see.”

Have I lost all common sense?

I wipe my face with my sleeve and get back to the feast in front of me, determined not to get distracted by the other ‘feast’ in the room.

Not anymore, anyway.

“You should try the waffle cones first or the cupcakes.” I can’t help the excitement rising in my voice. “Oh no, try the brownies first, I am telling you.”

He takes a small bite, his throat working as he swallows, a slow ripple down the column of his throat that I can’t seem to look away from. Then his ridiculously perfect face lights up as the flavour hits him.

“Mhmm, that is good,” he says, voice rougher now, surprise melting into something else. Then he leans in, close enough that the air between us feels heavy. “You know what else is good?”

“Crumpets?” I suggest ignoring the tension.

He slowly shakes his head, biting his lower lip, amusement flickering in his eyes. His breath brushes my ear, and I have to fight the urge to lean closer.

“Cupcakes?” I try again, my voice weaker this time, my heart racing.

Dangerous territory.

“You,” he says, pulling back. His scent mingles with the decadence before me.

The disappointment that follows is almost sickening. I either need to get laid or see a mind healer. Most likely both.

His gaze lingers on my wrist, the one that bears his brand. The proof of his mark on me. I don’t pull away; I know exactly what he wants.

For a moment I’d forgotten he was here, because of the bargain. Because of my blood.

“The way you see everything in the world as black or white is just plain sad,” he murmurs, an actor’s voice cracked with real tenderness.

“Right,” he sighs. “I’m going to bite you now.”

His gaze pins me in place, scarlet fire burning from the depths of his eyes, drawing me in whether I want it to or not. He’s not kidding.

The thick lashes only make the rich, molten red more vivid, flecked with darker sparks that seem alive, shifting as he moves. I can’t look away. I want to memorise every flicker, every shadow, every pulse of colour.

“I won’t take more than you can give me,” he promises, but even as he says it, the weight of his eyes presses into me, and I already know that I won’t protest either way…

Almost as if on instinct I extend my arm. His mark is glowing.

White teeth sink into my wrists, piercing my skin and I almost moan. I can’t help it, my head falls back exposing my throat. Eyes closed, I relish this.

Pain flares, sharp and insistent, a warmth hums beneath the sting. A small drop of blood leaks from the wound, and he sucks, his cheeks hollowing and expanding, drawing me into his mouth. My essence. I can feel it, the weight of my heavy magic seeping out of me.

And the only thought on my mind that manages to survive the haze?

The thought of his lips between my thighs. The desire is so strong that my legs shake.

Gods, I’m hopeless.

My usually barely visible veins light up as a sign that my Arken power fights the drain, wanting to stay with its owner.

It loses the battle, and as soon as it lights up, it goes out.

With each drop of blood, with each surge of magic, something settles within me, taming the storm inside me.

Gods the relief.

I inhale deeply, enjoying the first peaceful breath since that cursed power awakened inside me.

“Thank you,” he stops, placing a feather-light kiss on the wound, changing the throbbing into a tingling, and I don’t have it in me to contain another moan that slips from my stupid lips.

What the fuck. Get a grip, you melted candle.

After that - whatever it was - I try to focus on the amazing baked goods in front of me, but the sweets lose their magic. Especially since he leaves me to enjoy them alone. And I’m sulking? I’m mortified at how lame I am.

I sip the mead, its bittersweet taste familiar. The brand is unmistakable by smell—Mommy dearest used to bring it for Trisha and me when she still came around, when she still cared.

Then she decided that being a mother was too inconvenient and left us in Gram’s care. She didn’t even bother to reach out after what happened.

“Fuck her,” I groan, letting the curse slip in the safety of being alone.

I’ll enjoy my favourite mead without sentiment.

Only the top two percent of Fae can afford it. It’s so expensive that even my second cousin couldn’t have more than one in fifty years.

And Grandpa made sure I had a bottle of mead with my pancakes, morning after morning.

That’s how massive my vault is. I need to ask Jestin to figure it out for me, if he hasn’t already. He used to have this habit of cleaning up my mess before I could even lift a finger. I hope that hasn’t changed, because I have no idea who, besides Uncle Filip and him, could help me.

Grandpa would have…

Sorrow tightens my throat, clawing at me from the inside.

The happy memories shouldn’t cost that much.

I snatch my satchel from the chair and fumble through it for the flask I spent a fortune on.

My hands shake as I uncork it and pour a heavy stream into my mead.

The liquid swirls black and threatening, and I gulp it down in one desperate motion.

I inhale sharply and wait. Wait for the curtain to fall, for the world to go dark, for the weight to finally lift.

I wrap my hands around myself. One moment. I will allow myself one moment. The tears slip like uninvited guests, but I take a long breath and let them fall.

I let myself sob in the middle of the expansive dining room alone.

With time, I am getting better at this. I am no longer on the verge of losing my mind each time the grief hits me. That shitty emotion doesn’t understand that I lost the right to experience it. Always appearing with force, as if it was completely acceptable to me.

But it isn’t. They are gone because of me.

My stomach sinks, and I am no longer hungry. That pisses me off more than anything else. It’s not every day I’m treated to such a feast nowadays. I mourn the ability to experience a simple joy without turning it into a shit-show.

Knock knock.

The sound stirs me from my daze.

“Good morning, My Lady,” Samira lurks in the archway.

I nod, swallowing the bile in my throat and forcing a smile, though what comes out is more of a grimace than anything else and she invites herself inside.

As much as I try, I still cannot bring myself to hide from Samira. The history is heavy in her presence. Even if I tried, she knows me too well.

“Lady Zulu wishes to know how you are finding the mead?”

I flinch. Nice move, Zulu. If anyone can find the tender spot and press, it’s her.

“Suddenly it lost its bubbles.”

She smirks, “I’m sorry, Sels. She made me ask, you know how she is, but I’m happy to find you in good spirits.”

Are you? I thought we were fighting.

“Don’t think about that. It gives her power.” I reply.

“You don’t have to put up with her games daily, do you?”

I decide to change the topic; I don’t know what is safe to say on these rocky grounds. “How’s the mood in the palace?”

“Tense,” she replies, but when I don’t ask her to elaborate, she changes the subject, probably coming to the same conclusion as I had before.

“Jestin sent me to tell you about the announcement.”

Ah. That explains it. On Solstice, all Santorili nobles, mostly sand wielders, stay at the palace. It is a family celebration, so no one is allowed to be alone. The festivities start today with breakfast and performers, which is why my own feast was so generous.

At least he didn’t force me to eat with everyone else.

“He couldn’t manage that himself? He’s practically my neighbour.” I cross my arms, glaring at her.

She lays an elegant gown on the chair, smoothing the fabric with precise fingers. “He’d like to know if you plan to attend.”

I drag my gaze to the dress, letting my fingers hover over the silk before pulling back. “And if I say no?”

She pins me with a glare. “Just get dressed and go. You owe him that much. Besides, you know him, he’ll talk you in circles until you agree.”

“Of course he plans to meddle,” I roll my eyes.

“His favourite hobby,” she smirks, and for a fleeting moment, I feel normal. Then her expression shifts, as if she wants to say something more.

“Out with it,” I order her.

“You missed my mating. You were supposed to be my best mate. Do you even understand how important that was, or are you too ignorant to care?”

And there it is. She never has been one to mince words.

“I thought you were happy about that.” The words sound pathetic, even to me. Especially to me.

“That’s not the point.” She folds her arms. “We promised we’d be each other’s witnesses. You know how important that was to me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “What can I do to make it better?”

“You can’t. That’s the problem.” Her voice weighed down with pain and anger, yet she still sounds the same. “I’ll always remember that you didn’t care enough to be there for me.”

“That’s fair,” I murmur. “At least let me give you your mating gift.”

Her eyes flicker with curiosity.

I reach into my satchel, pull out a small key, and press it into her hand. “Here. Your summer house.”

“You bought me a summer house?” She stares at it, incredulous. “That… makes it a little better.”

“Are you really afraid of me, Sam?” I ask, the question slipping out, heavy with hope that maybe it’s not the case.

“I am, sometimes,” she admits. “After what happened—with everyone… You never talked about it. But what Chief Gerald said—what he claimed happened—I want to believe there’s a reasonable explanation.”

I stop breathing. My power hums beneath my skin, but stays obediently; I guess the drain helped.

“But you’ve been my friend since I was a little girl,” she whispers. “I wanted you there.”

It stings, but I accept it. “I’m sorry, my head wasn’t in the right place at that moment. It still isn’t.”

“You felt too much, didn’t you? You let your guard down for Jestin and got scared?” She asks, knowing me. She doesn’t seem to fear me, not enough to stop questioning my decisions.

“Pretty much,” I say, avoiding the fact that it is not a full picture at all.

“He deserves better,” she says, shocking me. I stare at her determined expression.

After a heartbeat, she lowers her head, her blond bangs falling to cover her nose, shielding some of that quiet strength.

“I know,” I admit and it tastes bitter on my tongue. My heart races, chest tight, as if speaking it aloud has pulled a thread in me that I can’t stitch back.