Chapter Thirty-Two
Nienna
He just left.
I sat on the bed, turned Freya away when she came to help me into my nightclothes, then collapsed onto the mattress, trying to figure out where I went wrong.
My trousers were folded beside my boots. The mage lights cast a faint glow on my thighs, bruises blooming soft and dusky across my skin. I stared at them, as if they held the answers.
A small voice whispered his late wife’s name—blamed her. Were the marks of passion too stark a reminder for him? Had I scared him away by wanting too much, too openly? Did I need to quell my desire, become more distant?
I dragged a hand down my face and cursed the silence, the unknown. How was I supposed to fix anything when he wouldn’t talk to me?
The door flew open, and I jumped to my feet as Kallias strode in, his shoulders rigid, every step a thunderclap. A storm brewed in his gaze, wild and churning, and I braced myself to face his anger—then, he kissed me.
His lips crushed mine, not harsh but desperate. Pleading. He cupped the back of my head as if he might never let go. I wound my arms around his neck, grounding him, anchoring him. A promise—I wasn’t going anywhere.
He smelled of sweat, steel, and something warm beneath—cinnamon and heat, like the edge of a forge. Like home.
“Forgive me,” he whispered against my mouth. A lock of silvered hair slipped down between us as he rested his forehead to mine, eyes still closed.
There was nothing to forgive. But this wasn’t about me—it was about whatever haunted him, whatever he still carried. If he needed assurance, I’d give it to him.
“I love you,” I breathed.
While lavishing him with tender kisses, I stripped him of guilt, of fear, of clothing. I made sure he knew he was wanted and adored without condition. No matter what happened, I would be his. Nothing could change that.
Later, after we lay tangled together, the moonlight painted his chest in soft silver. I traced the scar that had once condemned me from a sketch, and he traced soothing infinity loops along my back.
“You did nothing wrong,” he murmured, barely audible. His eyes stayed shut, as if speaking into the darkness offered protection.
I shifted, chin resting on his chest, gaze pinned to his face. “Then why did you leave me?”
His breath caught, his hand faltering against my spine.
“You know about my previous marriage through hearsay and rumors. Through gossip. But not the truth.” He paused, jaw tightening.
“Eldeiade had a gift for manipulation. She could charm a room and twist a crowd to bend to her whims. I was younger than you when we married. My parents died, and the throne demanded a queen. She was chosen.”
He scoffed, bitter.
“She was beautiful. And I thought that would be enough.”
I shot him a glare, but his grimace said he knew better now.
“I had no idea how wrong I was. Her mask cracked the night of our wedding when she–” He hesitated, gritting his teeth before he continued. “Gods, saying it aloud makes it seem so trivial. Pitiful. A man should be better than this.”
I braced my elbow on his chest and rested a hand over his heart. The heart that was mine—not some dead queen’s. “Tell me.”
His eyes opened, sadness pulling one corner of his mouth into a crooked smile.
“You’re nothing like her—everything she wasn’t.
Every day with Eldeiade was a battle. She chipped at me with insults and commands, made mockery a ritual.
She wore me down like a plow through a field.
Nothing I did ever pleased her—and that was just in public. ”
He turned his face upward, staring at the canopy above. His jaw clenched as moonlight caught the pain in his eyes.
“She wanted an heir more than anything, but she was volatile. She’d strike me, belittle me.
Refused to share her bed.” He paused, as if tempering the memory.
“Not that I tried after that first night. I was a tool to her, a means to an end. When I stopped trying, she accused me of striking her, blamed me for her injuries. Spread stories, rumors that I abused her. Called me a beast in a gilded mask.”
He fell silent.
“But she got what she wanted: a child. And I was finally free.”
“Was it the bruises?” I asked, soft as a hush, careful not to shatter the moment, to break the spell over us.
He nodded, sitting up. A broad hand peeled away the sheet, revealing the faint smudges on my thighs. Small banners of our passion.
“They brought everything back. What she said about me. What people believed.” His voice shook. “But seeing them on you… I wanted to kill her. To drag her from her grave.
“Last night, I wanted to ground myself in you—and left her marks on you instead.”
My breath hitched, and I tilted my head. “You think being rough was too much for me? Stand up.”
He hesitated.
“Go on. Shoo. To the mirror.”
Grumbling, he rose and crossed to the polished glass. I let my gaze trace the lean power of his form, then turned him by the arm.
His back bore red welts. Dozens.
“Seems I can hold my own,” I purred, fingers sliding up his jaw to bring his face close. “But if you ever need me to slow down, I will. If something reminds you of her—tell me. I won’t treat you like a child, or think less of you. Don’t bear it alone.”
His forehead dropped to mine, the weight in his chest easing with the breath he exhaled.
“In so many ways,” he murmured, voice thick, “you’re my first.”
Warmth surged in my blood, pride thrumming through every limb.
“And you will forever be my last.”