Chapter 19 Honest Tides #3
"But that means allowing me to lead when I'm forced to by our circumstances," she continues, the words landing with implications I can't argue against. "Not because I don't appreciate you taking the burden off me, because fuck..."
She needs to take a breath.
Fighting tears that threaten to spill despite her obvious efforts to contain them.
"It's hard." The admission emerges as whisper. "All of this is hard. And I'm truly drained."
Drained.
Of course she's drained.
She's been carrying weight that would crush anyone else.
"But just one more set of trials." Hope colors her voice now—fragile hope, desperate hope, but hope nonetheless. "Just one more rollercoaster of chaos, and we deal with my damn sister, and that's it."
Her transformed features carry determination that refuses to surrender despite everything stacked against us.
"We get to finally be in control of our destiny."
She meets my eyes with the particular intensity of someone asking for agreement, for support, for faith that what she's saying might actually be possible.
"Okay?"
Okay.
Such a simple word.
Such massive implications.
A single tear escapes her control—moisture tracking down her transformed cheek, carrying evidence of the emotion she's been trying to contain. The drop catches light as it falls, shimmering with the particular luminescence that her Fae awakening has apparently made permanent.
I reach out.
My thumb finds the tear, brushing it away with gentleness that contradicts the roughness of most of my interactions with the world. The moisture transfers from her skin to mine, her grief literally becoming part of me through this simple act of comfort.
I nod.
"Okay."
The word emerges as whisper—agreement, acknowledgment, surrender to arguments I can't counter.
She's right.
About all of it.
And I've been too focused on protecting her to realize I was also constraining her.
We stare at one another.
The moment stretches with the particular weight of understanding reached, of conflicts resolved—or at least acknowledged. The chaos continues around us, but in this space, on this platform of shadows suspended above volcanic destruction, something has shifted between us.
Better.
We're better.
Or we will be.
Someone clears their throat.
The sound shatters the intimacy of our moment with all the subtlety of a brick through a window.
We look.
Koishii.
Of course.
The fucking prince couldn't let us have five minutes of emotional resolution without inserting himself.
He floats upside down—again—his shifted features carrying amusement that suggests he's been watching this entire exchange with the particular attention of someone who considers other people's emotional struggles to be entertainment.
"Well," he drawls, tone dripping with the particular condescension that defines most of his interactions. "This is romantic and all..."
But.
There's always a but with him.
"But I think the hellhound is about to burn down the gates we need to go through."
What?
"WHAT?!"
Gwenievere's gasp carries alarm that mirrors my own sudden concern.
We look.
Fuck.
Damien's hellhound form has apparently decided that the volcanic destruction it's already causing isn't enough chaos for one day.
The three-headed beast has positioned itself before what I now recognize as the gates that lead to whatever comes next in Year Four—massive structures that carry the particular weight of significance that Academy architecture always seems to possess.
And the creature is gathering energy.
Fire builds in all three mouths—flames accumulating into something that transcends simple combustion, power growing with intensity that speaks to hellfire rather than anything natural.
The combined heat radiates outward in waves I can feel even from this distance, air shimmering with thermal distortion that makes the gates seem to dance.
The fireball that's forming is massive.
Big enough to obliterate the gates entirely.
Big enough to strand us in this volcanic nightmare without any hope of progression.
Big enough to end Year Four before it even properly begins.
"CASSIUS!"
Gwenievere's voice snaps me back to immediate priorities.
I don't hesitate.
My wrist extends toward her—the same offering I made before, now carrying urgency that wasn't present during our earlier argument. She needs blood. She needs it now. Whatever emotional resolution we've achieved means nothing if we can't survive the next few minutes.
She takes it.
Her fangs—fangs, evidence of vampire nature that still exists beneath the Fae transformation—sink into my flesh with the particular sharpness of predator claiming sustenance.
I flinch.
Not from pain—pain has never particularly bothered me—but from the sensation. The feeling of her feeding, of my blood flowing into her, of intimacy that transcends simple physical contact.
Desire.
The response is immediate and inappropriate given our circumstances—heat rushing through my system with every draw she takes, pleasure that I have to actively fight to keep from becoming visible.
Each pull of her mouth sends electricity cascading through nerves that have become entirely too responsive to her specifically.
Not the time.
Not the place.
Focus on survival, not on how badly you want to fuck her.
I tame myself through sheer force of will, containing responses that want to become much more obvious.
We're standing on a shadow platform above a volcanic hellscape while a three-headed hellhound prepares to destroy our only exit.
Getting distracted by how good it feels when she drinks from me would be monumentally stupid.
My attention shifts to the problem we actually need to solve.
Prince Douche.
He's still floating nearby, watching the approaching disaster with the particular interest of someone observing entertainment rather than threat. His shifted features carry amusement that makes my teeth grind with frustration.
"Can you do something?" I demand, the words emerging sharper than I intended.
He blinks.
The reaction is slow, deliberate—the particular response of someone who wants you to know they're considering your request rather than simply complying with it.
"Hmmmm."
The sound carries consideration that's probably theatrical given how much he seems to enjoy making others wait for his responses.
His attention shifts to Gwenievere.
She's still drinking—still pulling blood from my wrist with the particular intensity of someone who desperately needs what I'm providing. Her hair is beginning to shift, golden strands gradually darkening toward the silver I know so well.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
The transformation is happening, but not at the speed we need. Damien's fireball continues to grow with each passing second, and at this rate, the gates will be destroyed long before she's ready to command him.
Koishii sighs.
The sound carries the particular weight of someone who has decided to do something against their better judgment.
"I'll listen to you just this once," he huffs, shifting his orientation from upside down to right-side up with casual disregard for the laws of physics.
Once.
He's emphasizing that he's only doing this once.
Like we should be grateful for his condescension.
"Not because you're my equal or anything," he adds, the clarification carrying superiority that makes my jaw tighten. "Simply because my Queen shouldn't rush her food."
Her food.
He's referring to my blood as food.
Which it is, technically, but somehow the phrasing still irritates me.
But I don't have time to be annoyed.
His grin spreads across his shifted features with the particular anticipation of someone about to do something they've been waiting to do.
"Let's have some fun."
The declaration carries excitement that seems inappropriate given the circumstances, but I've stopped expecting appropriate responses from him.
He corrects his stance.
The motion is subtle but significant—casual floating giving way to deliberate positioning, entertainment transforming into intention. Whatever he's about to do apparently requires actual effort, which might be the first time I've seen him take anything seriously since meeting him.
His hand rises.
The gesture is elegant—fingers positioning themselves with the particular precision that Fae magic seems to require.
Power builds around him with visibility that speaks to the magnitude of whatever working he's preparing, energy accumulating in patterns that make my Duskwalker senses prickle with awareness.
He snaps his fingers.