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“They are coming for you, Cyrus.”

Cyrus nodded mutely.

“You will… You are strong enough to endure this,” Briar said.

A small, sardonic smile tilted on his lips. “If only I was that kind of male,” he answered. “But it’s already too late.”

Briar’s gaze darted to Alaric and Gehenna. They were face-to-face at the bars, heated whispered words being hissed between them. Good. If her focus was there, it could not be on him.

Briar sank to a crouch before him. “They will understand, Cyrus. Whatever you have had to do to survive her… They will understand.”

“How long?” Cyrus asked.

“Soon.”

He shook his head. “How long has it been? Since I have been here with her?”

“It has been three days since the encounter in the Southern Islands.”

Three days.

It had taken three days for him to break. Only three days to give in to her. Only three days to betray his family, his Court.

And Briar wanted to tell him he was strong?

If he had it in him to laugh, he would have then. He was the farthest thing from strong there was. He didn’t need to be reminded that he damaged everyone around him. It was something he reminded himself of every waking moment, and his nightmares reminded him while he slept. More than once he had thought that it would be better if they didn’t come for him, if they left him here. But three days.

That’s how many days Alaric had given them. If they didn’t come today…

Well, what more could Alaric really do to him? Drain his power? He could fucking have it. Physically torture him? He deserved that and more. Keep him locked away with the Sorceress? There was nothing left of him anyway.

He’d told himself he would make it up to them. He would do better. This would be the last thing he did that would hurt those he cared for so profoundly. He would never be deserving of anything, but he would try. Try to not be the complete fuckup his mother had clearly deemed him to be. What he’d proven to be every day since. He would do better. Do more than he had done for Merrick, for Thia. He would be better.

The room fell silent when Cyrus walked into the den. Eliza wouldn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on her wineglass as she fiddled with the stem. Rayner was standing next to Sorin, trying to look casual and relaxed. Cyrus knew he was anything but. And Sorin? The Fire Prince had a grim look on his face, mouth set in a taut line.

His steps faltered. “What?”

Sorin pushed out a harsh breath, swiping a hand through his dark hair. Then he jerked his chin at the table. “Sit, Cyrus.”

There were no cards waiting for them. No food spread. No drinks, save for Eliza’s, but she was currently chugging the last of her wine.

“Just tell me what is going on,” Cyrus said, moving to the chair anyway.

The three of them—his family—glanced between themselves again. Sorin took a seat, but Rayner remained standing next to him. Ever watchful. Cyrus sank unceremoniously into his seat.

“These last few years have been difficult,” Sorin started, holding his stare.

Cyrus blinked at him. Difficult? These last five years had been agony. Five years since Thia had been killed. Five years since he’d lost his twin flame. Five years of mania. He scarcely remembered some months. Entire periods of time were simply blank.

“We have waited to have this conversation,” Sorin continued. “You know we are here for you. Whatever you need.”

Cyrus nodded, trying to figure out where he was going with this.

“We…” Sorin swiped a hand down his face.

“Just say it, Sorin.”

“We want to give you an out, Cyrus.”