Chapter 35 #2
I try and fixate on some blank part of the wall to my left.
“No—just…One moment,” Cyrus mutters and closes the door.
When I turn my face back again, Devin snickers beside me. I give him a quick look, and when he doesn’t stop, I shove him.
As he swings in retaliation, the door opens again. This time Cyrus at least has pants on.
“Come in.” He swings the door open.
Devin ushers me forward, and I step into the room. My eyes unable to stop scanning around us.
We’re in Cyrus’ bedroom.
It’s immaculate. A golden hearth is set off in one wall, with embers glowing in its center.
Windows stretch from the ground up to the rounded ceiling.
The walls are decorated in the same floral patterns with dragons as our rooms are.
Unlit golden sconces mark the wall panels, and an ornate chandelier hangs above the grand bed, which overflows with luxurious silk fabrics and thick pillows.
Below my feet is a gorgeous crimson rug stretching out across the entire room.
And facing the set of windowed doors leading out to some sort of balcony is a ruby-red tufted loveseat.
“Take a seat, if you’d like.” Cyrus motions to the loveseat.
I turn to face him, pointing my chin towards Devin.
“You may return to your room, Devin,” Cyrus says.
Devin’s jaw flexes, and he bows his head, but isn’t afraid to slip me one last glare as Cyrus walks him to the door. As soon as the bedroom door is shut, I take a seat.
“I’m sorry for intruding so late at night like this…” I start, leaning back on the couch to cross my legs.
He brushes his wet hair back as he stalks over to me. Muscles gliding across his frame like he was hand-carved by the Gods themselves. The soft flickering light from the fire behind him doesn’t help dull my admiration. Luckily for me, he grabs the nearest thing draped over the arm of the loveseat.
He slips it on quickly, without buttoning it—a dark coat that exposes the center of his torso. “You know that I don’t sleep much, so please, you aren’t a bother. And even if I were—there’ll never be a time I turn you away.”
I nod, playing with my gloved fingers just to give my eyes something else to look at. “I came to ask you questions.”
“I will answer to the best of my abilities.”
I glance up at him as he takes a careful seat on the same couch. Though, he’s ensured to sit at the farthest part away from me. His shoulders are angled in my direction, arms crossed over his chest as he leans back.
I clear my throat. “What do you know of the women in the infirmary?”
Johanna. Devin said something about Johanna. But I can’t recall if one of the two women who went to the infirmary was named Johanna. And Devin mentioned Cyrus is in a mood—so I tread carefully.
“As in their background or…?” he trails off.
“As in why they’re in the infirmary.”
“They’re sick,” he answers simply.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Is that right? Sick with what?”
He shakes his head slowly, squinting at me. “They aren’t sure yet. They’re conducting tests to figure it out. And keeping them quarantined in the event it's contagious. Lady Bethany and the doctors are managing it just fine, if you’re worried about it—”
“And you’re not worried?” I test.
He sags his head to one shoulder. “Marcella, I always worry.”
Gritting my teeth, I work through what to say next. Then finally letting it slip out slowly, “Is one of them named Johanna?”
He flinches like I’ve slapped him across the face. Then his expression falls, and his chest begins to heave.
“Answer me.” I press, not patient to wait for an answer.
“No…”
“Then who is she?”
He suddenly gets up and walks away from me toward the hearth. “You remember her name, but nothing else?”
I tighten my arms over my chest. “No, I don’t.”
He shakes his head slowly, leaning against a shelf above the hearth with one fist. “What is this about then, Marcella? You come in the middle of the night wanting to talk about something that can’t wait until morning, and you want to talk about her?”
I uncross my legs and push up, walking toward him. “Her? Yes, I want to talk about her. And I want to talk about why two women have randomly fallen sick, and how in the middle of last night I heard a woman scream. I want to talk about Lyra—”
“What about her?” he snaps his head in my direction with a flicker of something in his eyes before it vanishes.
I stop two paces from him, digging into his gaze and searching for truth. I want to be careful. For her sake and mine. “Who are you called to the most right now?”
He puffs out a breath and rolls his attention back to the hearth. “It’s not that simple.”
“Oh, please. Indulge me. You can’t possibly be drawn to all of them equally.”
His fingers curl, gripping the shelf.
My voice rises as the confusion melts into frustration. “Or at the very least, tell me who in the hells Johanna is because I don’t seem to recall a single woman here that goes by that name. Unless you’re seeing someone else outside of this competition—”
“She was my wife!” he bites out, slamming a fist onto the hearth’s shelf hard enough to break a piece of it off.
I take a step back, hand floating to my thigh where my dagger is. Shock steals my thoughts, my tongue.
He takes the other half of the shelf, still secured to the wall, and gently pulls it off before tossing it to the ground. He’s still facing the open flames in the hearth.
“Y-you were…married, before?” I stutter.
With a broken sigh, he drops his head, before answering in a strained whisper, “Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
He straightens before slowly turning to me. “She died. A long time ago.”
His expression is sullen, eyes unwilling to meet mine. I’m completely caught off guard by his expression.
“I-I’m so sorry, Cyrus,” I whisper. “That’s—that’s why you said this marriage wouldn’t be for love? Because your heart still belongs to her?”
“No, that’s not why. I loved her, but it’s been a long, long time. And the…nature of her death still eats at me. I—” He sucks in a breath through his teeth, body tensing. “It was my fault that I couldn’t stop it.”
I swallow. Partly wanting more clarification, but also trying to respect the pain clearly consuming him. Conniving Devin—he was absolutely trying to cause this. To prompt me asking for answers. He didn’t have to say anything at all, if he had truly wanted me not to mention her to Cyrus.
I attempt to steer the conversation toward something a little lighter. “But you do have feelings for someone here?”
His eyes flash, finally looking up at me. “I’m…not sure what to trust nowadays. I don’t think my heart is a reliable source anymore.”
“You kissed Lyra,” I whisper gently. Nearly praying that it meant something to the both of them.
“She told you that?” His voice is neutral, like he isn’t too surprised.
I take a step toward him, looking up in his eyes. “It’s okay to feel something for someone else. You have to let yourself. Otherwise, how do you expect to find yourself a Queen? You’re allowed to fall in love again.”
His eyes search mine. “But what if I don’t want to shut the door on her, on what we had?” he whispers.
Smiling, I shake my head as I take the last step between us to grab his elbow so he’ll consider what I say. “She would want you to be happy.”
But my encouragement doesn’t shake the seriousness from his expression. My smile starts to erode. My fingers on his elbow are suddenly far too intimate.
I retract my hand.
His eyes never leave mine as he asks softly, “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Unable to free myself from his gentle gaze, I take a pace back. “I’m-I’m…”
He takes a timid step toward me.
Words spill out of my mouth to fill the silence, “I want answers. I’m supposed to trust you, and yet the more time goes on, the farther I feel away from it.”
His eyes fall to the floor, jaw relaxing.
At first, he shakes his head. Slowly, then more profusely, as he’s fighting against something raging within his head.
He grabs my wrist, then closes the space between us and guides my hand to rest on his cheek.
For a quick moment, he turns his nose and mouth into my palm, his breath warm even through my glove.
He turns his attention back to me. Something distant and focused all at the same time.
“What are you doing?” I ask quietly, but unable to pull away.
“If you want answers…” He takes a deep breath. His gaze is tender and wholehearted. It stops my breath in my lungs. His eyes flutter down to my lips, heavy and sitting there. Sighing, “Then kiss me, Marcella.”
I blink and shake my head once as if I’ve misheard him. Then his eyes are back on mine, face drifting closer. His forehead bumps my own, eyes fluttering closed as he shakes his head onto mine gently like he’s still struggling in some internal fight.
His voice is gentle, yet strained. “Kiss me, Marcella, please. I can’t beg it of you again.”
My heart leaps in my chest at the raw vulnerability tainting his voice. The pleading. I lick my own lips, flicking a glance down at his.
A tilt of a chin away.
But he just kissed Lyra. He needs to choose Lyra, to marry her. I’m here as a spy. Hired for insider information—not anything more. It’s not worth it. It’ll only overcomplicate the entire reason that I’m here.
I slip my hand out of his, off his cheek as I step back from him. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Marcella,” he nearly whimpers.
I narrow my eyes. “What has gotten into you?”
The pain in his eyes is cracking like ice.
Loud and sharp. Dangerous. But he doesn’t force himself forward.
As I back up into a wall to put space between us, my foot hits something hard that rattles.
Glancing down, I find dark chains. Chains ending in manacles that slip across the floor and disappear underneath the bed.
He’s a man. Perhaps one in desperate need for someone to warm his bed for the night. That’s what this is. I can’t help the laugh bubbling up my throat. “I’m not interested in being your plaything, Cyrus. And if you thought even for second I would entertain it—”
“Wait, Marcella, before you get ahead of yourself that isn’t—”
“I have to go,” I blurt, hurrying for the door. Once I grab the handle I toss out, “I’m sorry if you misunderstood me coming to your room so late at night. It won’t happen again.”
“It’s for myself!” he calls behind me.
I pause, fingers still gripping the handle. Quite frankly it’s none of my business what sort of…interesting sexual activities he might occupy himself with.
But there’s something else in his voice.
I jerkily turn to look at him over my shoulder.
He’s standing in the firelight, hand flicking back to the manacles on the floor. “You know me better than anyone,” his voice wavers with an unfamiliar weakness.
“Then I suppose no one knows you at all,” I answer, then leave as quickly as I can, anxious to get back to my room.