Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
Sometimes it’s okay to change your mind.
CELINE
The veydra’s rippling features play on repeat in my head. Like a slot machine cycling through symbols—except there’s no luck involved. It lands on my father’s face every time.
I wonder if I’ll ever sleep well again. A shiver rocks me. I pull the blanket up and tuck it under my chin. There’s no relief, though, because this cold has nothing to do with my body and everything to do with my past.
The memory overwhelms me before I can wall it off.
“You humiliated me in front of the other thatsha.”
“I’m sorry, Father.” I hang my head and curse my wings.
As soon as the meeting devolved into an argument, they turned to blades.
Raised voices, the heavy anger of the other rulers .
. . My wings knew what came next. Malach angled his body in front of me, trying to hide my wings from my father and his friends, but he wasn’t big enough, and the clinking gave me away.
“You lack the discipline to rule.”
Anger simmers in my belly, but my terror keeps it banked. If he knew how mad I was . . . It isn’t worth imagining what he would do. I clench my hands, dulling my overflowing emotions by digging my nails into my palm until the pain drowns everything else out.
Father’s cold eyes, the rigid tension in his jaw . . . There’s nothing I can say to fix this.
Defeated, my shoulders dip. I’m old enough now to know my wings are his excuse. He’s going to hurt me no matter what because the council meeting didn’t go his way. The injustice makes me reckless.
“I don’t want to rule,” I say quietly, the tiniest hint of fervor infecting my tone.
Father’s head tilts, an odd light in his gaze.
“Wait for me in the training room, Celine. If you can defeat me, I’ll forgive your childish act of rebellion.
If not . . .” He lets the consequences hang in the air between us along with a flimsy strand of hope.
It’s a false hope. I’m twelve years old.
There’s no reality in which I defeat him in combat.
Determination sinks its teeth into me anyway, and I swear to the gods alive and dead that I’ll try my hardest. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to give him a taste of the pain he loves to inflict on others.
Luca touches my back. It’s enough, thank the gods—who I’m now convinced were never alive to begin with—to pull me out of the memory. “Are you okay, baby?” he asks.
Smile, I order my face. Reassure him. But like my wings all those years ago, my face has a mind of its own. It crumples, and Luca is ready—his strong arms curling around me, narrowly avoiding the sharp edges of my wings.
“I want it to be over,” I whisper. “Seeing his face again . . . I hate him, Luca.”
He’s silent as he considers what I said, then hums under his breath. “If you want him gone and for this to be over; we’ll have to stop playing defense.”
I frown. Is that what we’re doing?
Alistair is keeping watch in the living room while we rest. Bracing for the next attack. Hiding, no, cowering in this apartment. Damn me, he’s right—everything I’ve done is defense. I spent two decades reacting to my father’s attacks, and here I am doing it all over again.
This isn’t the independence I wanted; it’s a cheap copy.
“He won’t come here,” I say, sitting up in bed. “In order to kill him, I would have to take the fight to the celestial realm.”
“So, we hunt his ass down,” Luca says. “Then we come home and live life on our own terms. No more looking over our shoulders.”
He kisses my cheek, and I study his face. The stubble, the dark circles beneath his eyes—even exhausted, he’s stunning. My stomach twists. It isn’t fair of me to ask this of him. He’s been through too much because of me already.
“I swore I’d never go back.”
“Technically, you aren’t.” Luca shrugs, and I raise my eyebrows. “No, think about it, Celine. You aren’t going back; you’re just poking your head in for long enough to deal with your dad. It’s a necessary evil.” Or a false equivalence.
“That’s bullshit logic,” I tell him. “And it sounds like a good way to get someone killed.”
“Exactly.” Luca grins. “Your dad. It’s way past time for someone to kill him.”
“But the veydra—”
“Sucks too, we can kill him while we’re at it.” Luca’s pupils twitch, the shift barely visible in the dim light of my room.
“Malach will get his hopes up,” I say.
“Malach is a big boy—huge, actually. He’ll be okay, baby. All I’m hearing are excuses.”
I shove him into the pillows. “I don’t make excuses; I’m making you face the facts.”
“I’d rather you faced your fears,” Luca says. “They’re as important as the facts.”
Is he right? Am I focusing on the wrong things?
“I’ll think about it,” I whisper, pushing the covers off and climbing out of bed. I duck into my closet to grab a sweatshirt to ward off my chill.
Luca grunts. “Where are you going?”
“I can’t sleep,” I admit. “I’ll take over the watch and send Alistair in to rest.”
“Let me—”
“No,” I insist. “You need to get some sleep, and I’m losing my mind. If I get tired, I’ll wake you.” I leave before he can find a better argument, stepping into the living room and rubbing the grit from my eyes.
Malach sleeps fitfully on the couch. His massive body makes the piece of furniture look small. Alistair’s eyes flit from the door to me. I feel them on my body, seeing. . . fuck, who knows what Alistair sees. Too much. Always too much.
“I can take over the watch,” I say, clearing my throat.
He blinks at me and pushes to his feet, abandoning the chair. It’s not where it usually is—placed at the perfect angle to see the TV while remaining aesthetically oriented with the couch. He’s turned it to get a better view of the door and window at the same time.
It ruins my living room setup, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Silently, Alistair crosses the room until he looms over me, his clear blue eyes drilling into mine. Whatever he sees on my face must tell him my mind is made up, because for once he doesn’t argue with me.
“It’s been quiet so far,” he says.
I nod and glance back at the couch.
“Malach hasn’t woken.”
“I should move him to the spare room,” I say.
Alistair frowns. “No, this is better. If there’s an attack, he’s easier to protect here.”
I raise one eyebrow. “Do you have a soft spot for him, Ali? After everything?”
Alistair looks away, pursing his lips. “I don’t want to be the way I’ve always been,” he whispers. “Rigid and unforgiving.” Every word drips with guilt. He’s being too hard on himself . . .
“It’s not your fault Ciprian left,” I say.
“Maybe not.” Alistair’s lips quirk into a wry smile. “But whether he comes back or not is a different story, isn’t it, angel?”
I glance away. “Forgiveness isn’t easy for some of us.”
“Tell me,” he says, “if there’s hope for me to change. I don’t mind if it’s hard, but if it’s impossible . . .” His voice is rough and desperate.
Something tells me we’re not talking about Malach or Ciprian anymore, but I can’t get into this right now. I break free from his tortured eyes and take the coward’s way out.
“I’ll wake you if there’s trouble. Go and get some rest.”
Alistair disappears down the hallway without a word, and my back itches more with every step he takes.
I drop into the misplaced chair and sigh.
I may be making messes right and left with decisions and communication, but if anyone tries to get through the door—no matter what face they’re wearing—I’ll end them.