CHAPTER FOURTEEN #2
Emmery stood and dusted off her trousers.
If the loss had caused him to discard his beliefs, it must have been a devastating one.
Even though she didn’t care to admit it, she'd struggled too after losing her mother and Maela. Though now she supposed they weren’t really family at all.
Not blood anyway. “The cruelty of life can kill your faith, but it's our job to keep it alive. To nurture it.”
“We’ve all been through a lot.” Brennen glanced behind him at the deserted streets lit only by the moon’s pale glow, so similar to Vesper’s eyes. “Ready to head back, princess?”
“I really wish you’d stop calling me that, dog,” Emmery grumbled.
He flashed her a canine grin. “Too bad.”
She bit back a tiny smile. “Thank you for bringing me. For taking the time.”
“If this small thing makes you happy, I’m glad I could give you that.” Brennen looked up at her with those strange orange eyes, like a flickering flame. “If you ever need me, I’m here. Even if it’s just to annoy you.”
Emmery bumped him with her hip and Brennen nudged her back.
As they walked, the castle came into view, and Emmery noted the lit training ring sconces.
Vera was likely still there after the fever had incapacitated her for two days.
Today in the training ring as Emmery finished her rigorous practice of rings, barriers, and walls of flame, Destonne had strolled through the door with a red-handled longsword strapped to his back and unbridled sureness in his gait.
Each time Emmery finished her training, the King would enter, as if he knew the moment she was done.
Yet today, instead of leaving, she made a quick excuse to Brennen and stuck around to watch.
She wasn’t sure why she did it, only that she couldn’t help herself.
It was educational, to say the least.
Destonne was a skilled swordsman. His footwork, lightning-quick reflexes, and the strength in his core, arms, and thighs was like nothing Emmery had seen before, other than Callias.
But while Callias fought with brute, egregious muscle, Destonne decimated with honed strength and silent rage he carried like a battle scar, clearly from decades of practice.
Emmery had lingered behind a pillar, studying the flex of his back muscles through his tunic, the sheen of sweat on his brow, and the elegance with which he always held himself injected into combat.
It got to the point she feared her watching bordered on creepy, and yet she couldn’t pull herself away.
Maybe she’d sought the secrets of his tricks and tactics should the King ever turn on her, but even she knew that was a lie.
And she’d slunk away like some lovestruck teenager caught peeping.
Brennen chuffed a laugh, tearing Emmery from her thoughts. “What are you thinking about?”
She narrowed her eyes at the wolf. “Nothing.”
“Probably best I don't know with that flush to your cheeks.”
In a refusal to grace his observation with a response, she cleared her throat. “Where’s Cyrilla? I haven’t seen her since we visited Reize.”
“Dez sent her out to deal with some … things.”
“What, uhm—” She fumbled for an adequate question. “What does she do exactly?”
“She has a few roles. She’s very good at acquiring information by whatever means necessary. I’ll put it that way.”
She read between the lines. And her demeanor made sense for the nature of her work, but it was such a strange phenomenon to watch Cyrilla’s hard exterior soften around her son. “If she’s gone, who’s looking after Soren?”
“Dez.”
For an unknown reason, Emmery’s stomach knotted.
As they rounded the corner, then skirted the castle walls, her mind raced.
Maybe she’d been right in her assumption, but it could be a coincidence they looked alike.
Though she told herself she didn’t care, after biting down on her lip to hold back the question, Emmery blurted, “Is Soren his son?”
Brennen gave her an assessing gaze which morphed from a confused daze of questions to a snap of realization, but for what she couldn’t pinpoint. “We don’t know who Soren’s parents are.”
“But Cyrilla—”
“She found him abandoned in Malheim a little over a year ago. He was only an infant.” Shadows darkened Brennen’s stare. “They heard him crying in an alleyway next to a heap of trash. Cyrilla refused to leave him.”
Emmery’s pace slowed as her stomach rolled. How could anyone do that? The thought was unfathomable, like lopping off a limb and choosing to live without it. “And what did Destonne say?”
“He would adopt all those children if he could, but with the Council involved, his hands are tied.”
Emmery studied the wolf but he offered no more information. What did Brennen mean by that? Destonne gave the Council no more pompous attitude than he did anyone else, and he’d easily agreed to their requests.
When they arrived at the castle, the night guards hauled open the front doors. Emmery’s steps dragged, her thighs sore and fatigued from today’s swim.
“Can I trust you’ll make it to your room on your own tonight? Or do I need to escort you?” Brennen bared his teeth in a grin.
“I’m going to grab something quick from the kitchen. All that walking made me famished.” Hesitantly, she bent and wrapped her arms around Brennen’s wide neck. His plush fur tickled her cheek. “Thank you for tonight.”
Brennen stiffened before he rested his head on her shoulder. When they parted, he extended his paw and dipped his head. “Goodnight, princess.”
“Goodnight, dog.” As she smiled, her heart lifted with her lips.
Brennen sauntered off, not in the direction of his room, but toward Fionn’s. At least neither of them would be alone tonight.
Emmery tiptoed to the kitchen to snag a few rolls before she snuck back out. As she navigated the sitting room furniture, the ticking clock even shriller in the dark, she thumped her knee on the coffee table and clamped her lips between her teeth to swallow her curse.
That’s when she spotted a shadowed heap on the sofa against the far wall, too large to be a pile of blankets.
All the staff had retired for the night and everyone else should have been in bed.
She summoned her flame to a single finger to provide a shred of light.
Her chest tightened when the mound moved, shifted, rolled. The sofa creaked—
A rush of relief hit Emmery, followed by confusion as moonlight lit the side of Destonne’s profile.
What was he doing? He rarely ventured out of his room, especially this late.
His long legs were stretched out on the settee, crossed at the ankle, a blanket over him.
Cradled against his chest lay a sleeping Soren, his thumb shoved into his mouth, his other fisted in Destonne’s shirt.
Not the father? Then why in the world would he be asleep on the couch with a boy that wasn’t his when he had a perfectly good bed?
“You really shouldn’t walk around with an open flame like that.
One sneeze and you'll burn this place down.” Destonne’s hushed voice rumbled in the shadows, his eyes still closed as if he didn’t need them open to truly see her.
Several colourful children’s books lay on the floor.
The King’s arm twisted awkwardly from where it hung, his wrist limp.
Emmery rounded the table and walked toward them, keeping her voice muffled, “Why are you in here?”
“I could ask you the same question,” he whispered back.
They stared each other down, both unrelenting. Emmery settled for a version of the truth: a small white lie with the omission of her plans. “I was headed to the kitchen. But after seeing you, I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Very funny,” he hissed.
Destonne smoothed back the mop of curls falling into Soren’s eyes and rubbed his thumb over the crease in the boy’s brow. That’s when Emmery saw the tear stains on Soren’s cheeks, his puffy eyes, and pink nose. Her heart strained as she looked between Soren and Destonne, utterly speechless.
“He’s missing Cyrilla.” The downturn of Destonne’s lips matched Soren’s. It was the most emotion she’d ever seen on the King. “It seems I’m only adequate when fun is involved. When he needs the warm, loving touch of a mother, I’m not exactly equipped.”
Emmery crouched, whether to get a better look at the distressed child or to offer the same unspoken support Destonne had offered her these days at the pond, she wasn’t sure. “It looks like you did fine,” she said.
Destonne lifted a brow. “Was that a compliment?”
“Don’t get used to it.” An unexpected smile claimed her mouth, and she swore, in that flicker of a moment between them, that he, too, stifled one.
“Is my arm still attached? It’s been numb for hours,” he whispered. His chest stilled as Soren buried his face in Destonne’s neck and grabbed hold of two of his fingers on his free hand.
She poked his arm. “Anything?”
He shook his head and pressed his lips together.
“We’ll likely need to amputate,” she added and prodded him further, his forearms surprisingly muscular. “Lop it clean off.”