6. Willow
Chapter 6
Willow
L ike many fae, we’re part beast—I’m wolf-blooded, while Fox and Styx have tails. Ancient texts hint at the Sluagh’s avian origins, which are evident in their wings. Our bond gifted them the power to shed their otherness, no longer relying on glamour. Yet their nature as chaos-bringers, death-dealers, and soul-devourers always lingers beneath the surface.
Varen’s eyes dart over my shoulder to Bodin, his expression instantly morphing from amorous to fractious. I can almost feel the panic radiating off him.
“The longer an intruder queen stays,” he snarls, glaring at the jar of wisps, “the more her pheromones corrupt the hive.”
Intruder? My eyes burn as I pull away. He seizes my wrist, desperate to keep me close.
“Varen, we can’t.”
His jaw clenches, his grip tightens, and pain shoots up my arm. Darkness drowns the warmth in his eyes, hinting at his Sluagh form—a warning wrapped in madness. My sweet Varen harbors an insatiable beast, and I’m not sure it’s meant for me.
What if he doesn’t release me? What if he loses control?
I’m acutely aware of Bodin’s presence behind me, his tension palpable in the air. Part of me wants to turn to him for help, but another part rebels against appearing weak.
Varen’s teeth bare as he yanks me closer. Hunger hardens his gaze into something terrifying, inconceivable from the man who touched me so tenderly moments ago.
“Let go, Varen,” I gasp. “You’re hurting me.”
“Ren.” Bodin’s hand clamps around Varen’s wrist. He tugs, met with resistance and a snarl. “That’s enough.”
Varen scrambles off the bed and bolts to the fireplace, muttering self-deprecating words. He plunges his hand into the hot embers and retrieves a coal—the stench of burning flesh assaults my nose.
“Varen, no!”
I lunge for him, but he’s too strong. He tosses me aside effortlessly. I stumble against the bed, losing my footing.
Varen lurches to the wall, his eyes wild with panic. He reaches out to start sketching but suddenly freezes, his hand hovering inches from the surface. His expression shifts from frantic to dismayed.
“No, no, no!” he shouts, his voice rising in pitch. “Where are they? Where are my markings?”
He begins tearing at the wallpaper frantically, revealing fresh patches underneath. His distress escalates as he uncovers a clean wall.
“Who did this?” he demands, whirling to face us. His eyes lock onto Bodin, narrowing with sudden suspicion. “You! You’re helping him hide them!”
Bodin’s jaw tightens, his expression a mixture of guilt and resolve as he moves swiftly, positioning himself between Varen and me.
“We’re only trying to keep your room clean, Ren,” he says, his voice carefully neutral.
But Varen isn’t placated. He spits back, “Clean? The yellow jackets are invading, and you’re worried about clean?” He turns back to the wall, ripping off more wallpaper with renewed vigor. “They’re coming. They’ll destroy everything if we can’t see the patterns!”
As Varen uncovers another clean patch of wall, he immediately begins sketching with the coal, muttering about combs and honey. His distraught energy fills the room, making the air feel thick and oppressive.
“If we can’t repair the combs,” he spits between strokes, “we can’t keep the honey.” He jabs at the shapes, eyes wild. “The walls are broken. No royal jelly for the bees. Too cold for flowers. No pollen. The bees are dying.” More angry slashes. “Too cold. Too cold!”
Bodin sighs and sinks into a chair, his expression of weary familiarity. But beneath that, I glimpse the toll this takes on him—the weight of being the protector, of always having to be strong.
Blood and charred flesh taint the air. Varen’s beeisms shift from outward ramblings to inward arguments. He slaps his head, raging about the deafening swarm. He lurches to another wall, shredding more paper for his frenzied sketches.
“I can’t think!”
His cry pierces my heart.
“You’re going to leave him like this?” I gesture at Varen, turning to Bodin.
“What would you have me do?” His voice is gruff, but I detect a hint of helplessness. “Restrain him?”
Horror twists my gut. “Is that what you’ve done before?”
“You’ve wreaked enough havoc for a year in one day. Let him work through his episode. Then you’ll explain yourself.”
“What?”
He brandishes a folded letter, a low growl reminding me of his authority.
“If not for this,” he growls at me, “I’d have ended you in your sleep.”
His words sting, but I force myself to look beyond them. I see the fear in his eyes—fear of losing control, of failing to protect those he cares about. It’s easier for him to be angry than to admit his vulnerability.
“Shut up!” Varen shouts. I whirl to find him screaming at the wall, spittle flying. “I can’t hear through the buzzing wings.”
“Varen?” I step closer, aware of Bodin tensing behind me.
“Too loud! Too many. Swarming. Swarming!”
He beats his ears violently, smearing coal and blood.
Bodin remains motionless, resigned. He must know about Fox. Why else accuse me of causing problems? Surely, Styx explained.
My nails dig into my wounded palm as I clench my fists. The angry slashes from Tinger’s pendant remind me why I broke it.
I’m not nothing. Not some insignificant creature to be crushed or trapped.
I glance between them. Varen, crouched in agony, unhinged. Bodin, pain hidden behind a stoic mask, hardened like Fox’s stone form. Titania did this. She’s the harbinger of calamity, not me.
She stole my power and summoned them, assuming they were still the monsters she’d bound millennia ago. She shattered Varen’s mind. She carved that defeat into Bodin’s features.
They’re not hers.
They’re mine .
I’m the fucking giant, and I’ll find a way to crush her. Seeing them like this—broken and hurting—ignites my fierce protectiveness. I’m their mate. I want to help and heal them.
Clenching my teeth, I lower myself to where Varen crouches by the wall, rocking on his feet and hitting his ears. I feel Bodin’s gaze on me, a mix of concern and skepticism.
“Honey,” I murmur. “Look at me.”
When he doesn’t respond, I raise my voice but keep it steady.
“Varen, it’s me. Willow.” Nothing. “Varen. I’m here— Look at me.” No response. I scramble for something he’ll understand, so I add questioningly, “I’m the queen bee?”
He stops rocking but still clutches his head, face forcibly averted from me. Anguish lifts his brows. I may not want to be a queen, but if that’s what he needs to hear, so be it. I repeat the name he gives me, using the narrative of his madness to communicate. He meets my gaze. Acute pain has contracted his pupils to pinpricks. It breaks my heart to see him in such agony.
I gently cover his hands and say, “It’s okay.”
Stop hurting yourself.
His breath comes in ragged pants. Conflicted emotions batter his expression. He wants me to save him, to help him, but his gaze flicks to Bodin, and suddenly, he slams up a wall between us by looking away. He tries to be strong. To be the kind of male who will be the staunch protector, not the protected.
He almost lets me tug his hands from his bleeding ears, but then his eyes roll, and he resists. “Too loud. Too bright.” He starts rocking again. “Too hot. Too cold. The hive is too small for everyone. The walls are breaking. They have nowhere to go without combs holding the honey. Too loud!”
He no longer hits his ears but tears at his hair.
Although he says nothing, I feel the weight of Bodin’s judgmental gaze on my back.
Calamity , I imagine him thinking. Every time I try to fix things, I make them worse.
No.
I’m not going back to that dark place of doubt and insecurity. Fox showed me I am deserving. Tinger showed me I am valued. My parents trusted me enough to let me go and figure things out by myself.
Nothing grows in the shadows, my mother said the night before I left.
I can do this.
I just need to think of what worked in the past—what helped me calm down when I was irrational with fear and pain? My Aunt Rory used to tell me to look at five things around me and name them. But that won’t work here. That’s for someone still in the realm of sanity.
The answer comes to me from an unexpected place.
When I was little, my advanced shifter hearing made thunderstorms much worse. Once, a storm battered branches onto my father’s wooden cabin roof in the mountains. The wind howled louder than a wolf. Everything felt big. My emotions were big. The danger was big. I scrambled into a corner but could still see the shadows flickering. The gap beneath the door screeched like a banshee. The sprites in the fireplace squeaked and hid beneath their log.
I felt small, insignificant, and powerless to stop the fear growing in my belly.
“Come on, squirt,” my father said, thumping the bed he sat on. “Hop on the bed.”
“No!” I screamed, blocking my ears.
He was the strongest male I knew, a monster hunter, but there were still so many things he couldn’t protect me from.
“Why not?” His growly frown only made me want to shrink.
I can’t remember my answer. Probably more childish screaming, but what I do remember is that his frown went away, and his eyes lit up with an idea. Somehow, he pulled me onto the bed and said, “If the cabin feels too big, squirt, then we’ll make it smaller.”
He slung a sheet over our heads and made a cocoon. It muffled some of the sounds, but what completely drowned them out was the rowdy tavern song he sang as I burrowed into his embrace.
“Varen,” I raise my voice to get his attention. “Come with me, and I’ll take you somewhere the loud swarming won’t reach you.”
I’m unsure exactly what it is, but something buzzes loudly in his head. It started when I pushed him away.
He tries to ignore me, but I take his hands and order, “Your queen bee needs you to cluster around her. Clustering stops the wings from buzzing.”
He gives me another inch, so I tug him to his feet, careful not to let him hurt himself further. We climb onto his messy bed together, and I toss the sheet over our heads. The barrier makes the world seem smaller.
I’m acutely aware of Bodin’s presence just outside our cocoon. His concern is almost tangible, but he remains silent, allowing me to try.
“It’s just you and me here,” I murmur. “No buzzing wings. No swarming. Just you and me.”
I hug him close, tightening my embrace as my father once did for me. If we make the world smaller, if we drown out the storm with our own voices, we can take control of reality.
Sweet relief pours through me as Varen doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t relax. His muscles are rock hard and frozen, locked in terror against whatever horror rattles his mind. I cup his head and desperately try to remember the lyrics to a song, any song, as he clings to me.
But I don’t sing. There’s no need. Tension suddenly eases from Varen’s posture. He presses his ear to my chest and exhales. Another song has captured his attention—my heart.
I catch Bodin’s eye through a gap in the sheet. His expression is a mix of approval and something else—a longing quickly masked. I’ve inadvertently demonstrated a strength Bodin didn’t expect. It’s a small step, but perhaps it’s the beginning of earning his trust, of proving that I can be more than just a source of destruction in their lives.