Chapter 65 Elowen
ELOWEN
I wake before dawn.
For a long moment, I lie still beneath the coverlet, staring into the dimness of the little inn room and listening to the sounds of the city beyond the shuttered window.
Somewhere below, in the street outside, a wagon rattles over the cobblestones.
I hear a mule bray, a dog bark once and then again, farther away, and the faint cry of a vendor already setting up in the square.
It’s morning in the King’s City—the day I cast the spell.
The thought should make me feel relieved. Instead, my chest aches.
I turn my head slightly on the pillow and look at Theron.
He’s still asleep—or pretending to be. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes.
He’s lying on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, dark hair mussed and falling over his brow.
His chest rises and falls steadily beneath the thin blanket and even in sleep, he looks…
troubled somehow. Tight in a way I can’t explain.
Then again, I don’t think I’m much better.
I barely slept—not really. I drifted in and out of a shallow, fitful doze all night, never fully losing awareness of the heavy warmth of him beside me.
The bed was large enough that we didn’t have to touch, but I felt him anyway—his heat, his scent, the constant magnetic pull of him like a second heartbeat beating somewhere just beyond my reach.
And beneath all that…his emotions.
I felt them like waves all through the night—regret, sorrow, self-loathing so bitter it made my throat ache, and underneath all of it, something raw and desperate and yearning that made it almost impossible to breathe.
Longing. He’s longing for me…and yet he feels like he can’t have me. Why?
That’s the question I keep circling back to, the one I can’t seem to stop asking no matter how much I tell myself it doesn’t matter anymore.
How can he want me and push me away in the same breath?
Why does he hold me one moment like I’m something precious and then tell me, in that rough, low voice of his, that we can’t be together because he wouldn’t be good for me?
The memory of those words makes my eyes burn. I squeeze them shut and press the heel of one hand to my chest, as if I can somehow quiet the hurt there by force.
It doesn’t matter—that’s what I tell myself, anyway.
It doesn’t matter because today I’m going to the King’s Court and I’m going to work the Time Weaving spell. I’m going to go back to the night Mirabella bullied me into following her and the other girls to Grizalyn’s house, and this time I won’t let any of it happen.
No curse. No shame. No green eyes. No ruined future.
And no Theron.
The last thought lands like a stone in the center of my chest and for a moment I struggle to breathe past the wave of sorrow that washes over me.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, my throat tight.
If he had simply been kind to me—if he had helped me out of pity or duty or simple decency—this would be easier.
If he had never looked at me the way he does…
never held me close… never kissed me like I was something he craved and cherished all at once…
then maybe I wouldn’t feel so torn in two.
But he did.
Last night he pretended I was his wife. He bought me a beautiful ring with his own keepsake money, selling that dragon tooth necklace his mentor made for him when he was young.
He called me his woman at the gate and nearly strangled a guard for insulting me.
He kissed me in the market under those lanterns and held my hand afterward like it was the most natural thing in the world… like we belonged together.
And then he lay beside me in bed and told me we could never have a future.
I let out a shaky breath and turn my hand in the dim light, looking at the ring he gave me. The sapphire and emerald catch the first pale hint of dawn filtering around the shutters, blue and green glinting together.
The past and the present…but never any future.
I press my lips together hard. Well, fine. If he doesn’t want a future with me—or thinks he can’t have one—then I have no business lying here wishing for something that was never truly mine.
Still…what I felt from him last night was real—I know it was.
A person can fake words. They can hide behind them—twist them or even use them like walls. But emotions aren’t so easily controlled—not through whatever strange bond has formed between us.
He was hurting last night. He hated himself. And he wanted me so badly it almost hurt to feel it.
So why would he push me away? Why would he tell me no when everything inside him was saying yes?
I don’t know and he doesn’t seem inclined to tell me.
The thought hardens something inside me.
Fine. If he won’t tell me the truth, then I can’t keep twisting myself into knots trying to guess it.
The plain truth is this—whatever conflict he’s fighting, it still ended with me lying beside him in the dark, feeling humiliated and unwanted and foolish for opening my heart to him.
I wince inwardly. I practically handed him my heart on a platter, and he rejected it—rejected me.
I throw back the covers before I can lie there another minute thinking myself into misery. The floor is cool beneath my bare feet as I stand and gather my robe around me. For a second I just stand there, listening to Theron’s breathing behind me and wondering if I ought to leave him sleeping.
Part of me wants to. Part of me wants to walk out right now, ask the innkeeper for directions to the King’s Court, and go alone. I can do the spell before Theron can stop me or look at me with those sorrowful, conflicted eyes that make me want to throw all my plans away.
The impulse is strong enough that I even take a few steps toward the door…then I stop.
Because no matter what happened last night…no matter how badly he hurt me…he still brought me here. He still protected me. He still gave up something precious to buy me the ring so I wouldn’t be shamed with my green eyes in public.
And because, for all his contradictions and all the confusion between us…I still trust him. He started this journey with me, and he deserves for us to finish it together.
I turn away and go to the basin to wash my face. The water is cool and sharp, chasing away the last of my drowsiness. I smooth my hair, belt my robe, and slip on my sandals. When I turn back, Theron is still lying there, looking as though the weight of the world is pressing down on him.
For one absurd, aching moment, I want to go back to him. I want to curl up against him and ask him again—ask him what’s wrong, why he feels like this, why he can’t let himself have what he so clearly wants.
But I don’t. I’ve asked enough. I’ve bled enough.
Today, I need to be practical…today, I need to finish this.