Chapter 19 Honest Tides
Honest Tides
~CASSIUS~
Fuck.
The curse erupts from somewhere deep in my consciousness the moment I see it happen—the moment Gwenievere's feet slip against scales that were never designed to accommodate passengers during emergency aerial maneuvers.
Her bare feet.
Why the fuck is she barefoot?
The question surfaces with the particular hysteria of someone watching disaster unfold in slow motion, each microsecond stretching into eternity as gravity claims the woman I would burn the world to protect.
She loses balance completely.
Her body tilts, shifts, passes the point of no return with the particular inevitability of physics that doesn't care about bonds or love or the fact that her survival matters more to me than my own continued existence.
One moment she's standing on Mortimer's scaled surface, the next she's falling away from it with velocity that makes my chest constrict with fear I refuse to name.
I don't think.
Thinking takes too long.
Thinking means hesitation.
Hesitation means watching her die.
I dive.
My body follows hers over Mortimer's edge before conscious decision can intervene—Duskwalker instincts overriding any consideration of my own safety in favor of reaching her.
The wind tears at my clothes, at my hair, at exposed skin that registers nothing beyond the single-minded imperative to catch her.
My tendrils reach further than they've ever reached before.
The shadow appendages that are as much a part of me as my own arms stretch outward with desperation that grants them length I didn't know I possessed.
They lance through the air toward her falling form, void-black extensions of my will racing against gravity that doesn't care about intentions or love or the particular terror that has replaced every other emotion in my consciousness.
Not fast enough.
She's falling too fast.
I need—
The thought barely forms before the shadows respond to need rather than command.
Darkness erupts beneath me—pooling, solidifying, forming structure where no structure should exist. A platform materializes from the void of my own power, shadows weaving themselves into something solid enough to support weight, stable enough to break my fall without breaking me.
My feet hit the shadow surface with impact that sends shock through my legs.
The platform holds.
And my tendrils finally—finally—reach her.
They wrap around her transformed body with grip that's probably too tight but I can't find the capacity to care about comfort when the alternative is watching her plummet into the lava that still erupts below us.
The void-black appendages pull her toward me with force that contradicts the gentleness I usually employ, urgency overwhelming everything else.
I let go.
Time it perfectly.
Release the tendrils at exactly the moment that will drop her into my arms rather than continuing her fall.
She falls.
I catch her.
Her weight settles against my chest with the particular reality of something that almost wasn't—the terrifying almost of loss that didn't quite happen.
My arms close around her transformed form with possessiveness that I don't bother trying to moderate, holding her against me like I can protect her from the universe itself through sheer physical contact.
Safe.
She's safe.
I caught her.
She's alive.
The relief that floods through me is so intense it borders on painful—pressure behind my eyes, tightness in my throat, physical symptoms that suggest emotional responses I've spent centuries learning to suppress.
She huffs.
The sound carries exasperation that seems entirely inappropriate given the near-death experience she just endured, but her voice reaches my ears with the particular melody that has come to mean survival in my consciousness.
"Man," she grumbles, her transformed features arranged into an expression that might be frustration or might be attempted humor. "They need to make a speed copy of 'how to use your Fae magic for dummies' in crisis situations."
She's making jokes.
She almost died and she's making jokes.
The observation carries the particular mix of annoyance and affection that defines most of my interactions with this impossible woman.
She looks up at me.
Those pink eyes meet mine with intensity that the golden rings around her pupils only amplify—Fae sight examining Duskwalker shadows with the particular attention of someone who has learned to read emotions that others might miss.
"You're mad I man-handled you earlier."
The statement lands with accuracy that makes my jaw tighten.
I roll my eyes.
The gesture is automatic—deflection through dismissal, the particular response of someone who doesn't want to have this conversation right now.
Or ever, preferably. Discussing emotions while standing on a platform of shadows above a volcanic hellscape with a three-headed hellhound trying to destroy our only exit seems like particularly poor timing.
I'm not mad.
Well...
Okay, I am.
The admission surfaces in the privacy of my own thoughts where she can't hear it, can't use it against me, can't leverage my vulnerability into conversations I don't want to have.
I'm mad because she threatened me with sexual consequences to force compliance with her commands.
I'm mad because she gave orders like I was some subordinate to be directed rather than a partner to be consulted.
I'm mad because she was right to do it, which somehow makes it worse.
I'm mad because watching that Fae bastard kiss her while I was sleeping made something in my chest turn to ice and fire simultaneously.
I'm mad because I don't know how to be anything else when the woman I love keeps putting herself in danger that I can't protect her from.
But I don't want to admit any of that.
Especially not now.
Especially not here.
I guess survival is going to force the confrontation anyway.
I extend my wrist toward her.
The gesture is practical—she needs blood to shift back to her vampire form, which she needs to control Damien's hellhound, which we need to survive the current situation. Simple chain of necessity that requires no emotional examination whatsoever.
"Hurry up and drink," I say, keeping my voice flat, controlled, carrying none of the turmoil that churns beneath my surface. "So we can calm that beast before he does more damage."
She looks at my offered wrist.
Studies it with the particular attention of someone examining something they're not sure they want to touch.
Then she pouts.
Pouts.
Her transformed features arrange themselves into stubborn expression that makes something in my chest tighten with a mixture of frustration and reluctant affection.
She turns her head away.
"No."
The refusal lands with impact that doesn't compute.
What?
I stare at her.
My expression probably broadcasts the particular confusion of someone who has just encountered behavior that defies all logical analysis.
"What?" The word escapes before I can stop it.
"Nope." She crosses her arms over the ridiculous Fae dress that still clings to her transformed body, the gesture carrying defiance that seems entirely inappropriate given our current circumstances. "You can't make me."
Can't make her.
She's refusing blood she desperately needs because—
Why the fuck is she refusing?
A groan escapes me before conscious control can intervene.
Woman!
The internal exclamation carries exasperation that I've been accumulating since the day I met her—frustration with her stubbornness, her recklessness, her absolute refusal to prioritize her own survival when literally anything else presents itself as an alternative.
"Little Mouse," I warn, the nickname emerging with the particular edge that usually indicates I'm approaching the limits of my patience.
She glares my way.
Those pink eyes—pink, not the silver and crimson I've grown accustomed to, pink with golden rings that speak to heritage she didn't know she possessed—lock onto mine with defiance that makes my teeth grind together.
"You won't tell me you're mad," she declares, voice carrying the particular confidence of someone who has decided on their position and refuses to be moved from it. "Then I won't drink your blood. So there."
So there.
She said 'so there' like we're children arguing over toys.
"We all lose," she continues, the words landing with implications that carry more weight than their surface suggests. "Damien loses his sanity and kills us all, and we can put the blame on you in the afterlife for being a stubborn Duskwalker."
The accusation makes my jaw clench with frustration that borders on physical pain.
"How are you going to put this on me?" I demand, the words escaping with more heat than I intended.
She huffs.
The sound carries righteous indignation that would be amusing if it weren't so infuriating.
"You want to be the leader," she observes, tone carrying challenge that I recognize as deliberate provocation. "So lead."
Lead.
She's throwing leadership at me like it's some kind of weapon.
"It has nothing to do with leading," I argue, the words emerging through gritted teeth.
"It must be," she counters, not missing a beat. "Because you don't like being ordered around by a hybrid that's not superior to you."
Not superior—
The suggestion makes something in my chest flare with indignation that has nothing to do with the hierarchy she's implying.
"That isn't fucking it," I growl, frustration bleeding through whatever composure I was maintaining.
She crosses her arms more firmly.
The gesture carries finality that suggests she's prepared to maintain this standoff indefinitely—even as Damien's hellhound rampages in the distance, even as lava continues to erupt around us, even as the situation deteriorates with every second we spend arguing about feelings instead of addressing the crisis at hand.
Fine.
Fucking fine.
If she wants honest, I'll give her honest.