Soul-Deep Pain #2
Now I understand why some people die of a broken heart. This is the kind of agony that could forever destroy a person. It might not be a physical injury, but it’s as torturous as every time a sword has pierced my skin.
“I don’t . . . No one has ever spoken about a second son.” Wren ticks off her fingers. “King Andreas, Queen Lucille, and Prince Severus,” she recites. “Those are the members of the royal family.”
It doesn’t surprise me that Wren has never heard of me. After all, the village where she grew up is far from Rosebridge. Gossip from the capital wouldn’t be readily available, especially since my father didn’t want it widely known he had a bastard who was a failure.
“I’m not like them. I’m not a prince.” The palace may have housed me growing up, but it was never my home. My voice is hoarse as I continue, “I never knew my mother.”
Wren gathers a pillow to her chest, holding it as she sits quietly, waiting for me to continue. Giving me time to explain.
“She was a maid, and he was a fucking king. There’s a power imbalance there, you know? Even if she consented, they never would’ve been equals.” And knowing the king, I doubt he sought her consent.
I glance up, and Wren inclines her chin. The movement is small, but it gives me strength to keep going.
“My mother left me in the palace after I was born.” I squeeze my eyes shut, shuddering. “She probably thought it would be an easier life for me.”
But she’d been wrong.
“My position in the palace was made clear to me as soon as I could talk. I was born of the king’s blood, but I was not the same as them. I was and always would be a bastard.”
I am not Marked. For years, I wondered what the difference was, but that must be the case. The royals have magic, so they must be Marked.
But not me.
My magic-less existence is a stain on the tapestry of my father’s life. “They all hate me.” The quiet confession lingers, filling the silence.
Once it would’ve hurt to say those words out loud. But those wounds are old, like the scars I bear. The situation with Wren feels much more tenuous, as if one wrong word will have my heart splitting in two.
Everything feels heavy. My bond with Mist stirs, and I know she can feel my pain, but other than a quick reassurance that I’m physically fine, I don’t dwell on her. My familiar can take care of herself, and Wren deserves my undivided attention.
Minutes pass, and they’re the longest fucking moments of my life.
“Gabriel.” My throat constricts at the way she says my name—cold. Distant. So different from how she moaned it last night. “Did you know?”
I tilt my head. “Know what?”
“That the king kills the Given.” She meets my gaze, and fresh tears track down her cheeks. I did this. Earlier, she was crying for me, but now I’m the one causing her pain.
I’ve never hated tears more.
Wren is spinning her bracelet around her wrist, something she does when she’s nervous or overwhelmed. “When you first saw my Mark and gave me the head start. Did you know?”
She whispers the last words as if she can barely stand hearing them out loud, and everything hurts.
“No, Birdie.” I reach for her fingers again, and this time, she doesn’t pull away as I clasp her hand. “I didn’t. Not until you told me in Saltwater.”
That day changed everything.
“You had no idea?”
“None. I lived in darkness before you, Wren. I did not know what was happening, and maybe that was my fault, maybe I should’ve paid more attention to what my father was doing in the temples, but I didn’t. I promise I didn’t know what they wanted to do to you.”
A long moment passes.
“Swear it to me,” she says.
My eyes sweep over hers. “You mean . . .”
“Swear to me that you didn’t know about the fate that awaited me. That you didn’t know what the kin—your father was doing.”
“Okay.” Pulling my hand out of hers, I reach for the dagger on our nightstand, pressing the tip against the center of my left hand. I pierce the skin, a sharp pain shooting through me, but I ignore it as blood wells in the middle of my palm.
“I swear to you, on my blood and on my steel, I did not know what my father was doing, nor was I aware of the true meaning of what it meant to be Marked.” I hold Wren’s gaze, begging her to see the truth in my eyes. “I was ignorant about what happened to the Given during their ceremonies.”
What would’ve happened to her if I’d brought her back to the temple.
I like to think that if I’d known, I would’ve done everything I could to stop it. That I wouldn’t have turned a blind eye to the horrors taking place every Giving Season, that I would’ve helped those being systematically slaughtered.
I will never know.
Blood trickles down my palm, but even though I put the dagger down, I don’t move to wipe it away. I would bleed far more than this for her.
Another endless moment passes before Wren moves. She looks at my shoulders and raises a shaking hand, tracing the air above my scars. Mapping them out without ever touching me.
“And your father did this to you.”
It’s not a question.
“Yes.”
She slowly nods, and I can see her mind working behind her eyes.
Sounds of life filter through the walls as the camp wakes up around us, but none of that matters.
I’ll wait for Wren for as long as she needs, knowing that her next words, whatever they may be, will change the course of my life forever.