Page 19

RONNIE

T he soft earth crumbles between my fingers, cool and damp against my skin as I work it around the tender roots of a zynthra plant.

Gardening has always been my escape—the one place where problems simplify into things I can fix with my own two hands.

Need water? I water. Need sun? I move the pot. Need better soil? I mix a new batch.

If only the rest of life were that straightforward.

The evening air carries the first hints of autumn crispness, though summer still dominates the days.

Millie is with Harmony for her afternoon lessons—something about colors and numbers that has my daughter bouncing with excitement.

The thought brings a smile to my lips. For all my fears about raising her in this world, she's thriving—curious, fearless, and surrounded by people who love her.

I pat the soil around the zynthra firmly, satisfied with its placement among the dreelk and brimbark I've already transplanted.

My garden plot isn't large, but it's mine—a corner of the world I've carved out through sweat and determination, just like everything else in my life.

It keeps my shelves stocked and my hands busy.

A shadow falls across my work, blotting out the golden evening light. I don't need to look up to know who it is. The air itself seems to shift when he's near, charged with something I refuse to name.

"What do you want, Araton?" I keep my voice flat, continuing to press soil around the plant's base. My hands have begun to tremble, so I press them deeper into the earth to hide it.

"Is she mine?"

The question drops like a stone into still water, sending ripples of shock through my body. Three simple words that collapse the careful walls I've spent three years building. My blood runs cold, fingers freezing in the dirt.

I rise quickly to my feet, brushing soil from my hands with more force than necessary. Every instinct screams at me to run, to grab Millie and disappear again. But where would I go? How far would I get?

"What are you talking about?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel, a small victory.

Araton's golden eyes narrow, flecks of amber catching the dying sunlight. "Is she mine?" Each word is precisely formed, dangerously soft.

"Is who yours?" The defensive question sounds hollow even to my own ears. A pathetic delay tactic, and we both know it.

In two swift strides, he's crossed the space between us.

My back hits the wall of my home, the rough surface digging into my shoulder blades.

Araton braces his palms on either side of my head, caging me with his body, his wings flaring slightly behind him.

The silver-flecked feathers catch the light, so similar to the downy wings growing from my daughter's back.

I've seen Araton angry before—playfully irritated when I'd kick him out of my bed, genuinely annoyed when I'd challenge his pompous declarations.

But this—this is something else entirely.

Raw fury radiates from him like physical heat, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle working beneath his bronze skin.

"I saw your little girl, but she called the xaphan 'Uncle,'" His voice drops lower, a dangerous rumble that vibrates through the scant inches between us. "She has my wings. My features. My eyes." He leans closer, his face mere inches from mine. "Is. She. Mine?"

My heart hammers against my ribcage like a trapped animal. Fear coils in my stomach—not for myself, but for Millie. What will he do with this knowledge? Take her away? Force his way into our lives? Demand rights I've never been prepared to give?

But beneath the fear, something else unfurls—a small seed of guilt that's been dormant for three years, finally breaking through the hard shell I've built around it.

I see the raw hurt beneath his anger, the confusion, the betrayal.

For all his smooth charm and calculated diplomacy, Araton has never been good at hiding his true emotions from me.

"Answer me, Ronnie." His voice cracks slightly on my name, revealing more vulnerability than I suspect he intended.

I swallow hard, searching his face. The fierce one, he used to call me. I don't feel fierce now—I feel cornered, exposed, the secret I've guarded so carefully suddenly laid bare between us.

"You can't take her from me," I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them. All the fight drains from my body like water through cupped hands, leaving me hollow and trembling against the wall.

Araton jerks back as if I've slapped him, his golden eyes widening with genuine shock. The fury in his expression shifts to something more complex—disbelief, hurt, perhaps even a flash of offense.

"Take her from—?" He shakes his head sharply.

"Is that what you think of me? That I have any intention of tearing a child from her mother?

" His voice has lost the dangerous edge, replaced by something raw and wounded.

He takes another step back, those magnificent wings folding tightly against his body, a defensive gesture I recognize from our past encounters.

"Unlike you, Ronnie, who clearly had no qualms about hiding her from her father."

The words slice through me, precise and devastating.

There's no theatrical rage behind them, just a quiet, cutting truth that leaves me bleeding inside.

I've spent three years justifying my choices, building fortress walls of righteousness around my decision.

With those simple words, he's found the weakness in my defense.

I swallow hard, tasting something bitter at the back of my throat. "Yes." The confession comes out rough. "Millie is yours."

Araton pushes away from me completely, running his hand through his perpetually tousled black hair. I've seen him make that gesture before, usually when dealing with something difficult. It's a tell—one of the few genuine reactions he allows himself when his careful composure cracks.

He paces a short line in front of my garden, his movements unnervingly graceful despite his obvious agitation.

The fading sunlight catches on the silver flecks in his dusky wings, making them shimmer with each step.

It's strange seeing him like this—Araton, who always had a smooth quip ready, who flirted and charmed his way through every situation, who never let me see beyond the mask of casual indifference he wore like armor.

"Three years," he mutters, more to himself than to me. He stops abruptly, turning to face me with an expression I've never seen on him before—vulnerable, wounded, stripped of all his usual calculated charm. "Why didn't you tell me?"

The question hangs between us, deceptively simple yet impossibly complex.

My reasons felt so certain when I'd packed my meager belongings in the dead of night—when I'd imagined him taking our child to Soimur, raising her among the xaphan elite while I was left behind.

Now, faced with his genuine shock and hurt, they feel flimsy, built on assumptions and ancient fears rather than anything he'd actually done.

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. Araton watches me struggle, and something shifts in his expression—a dawning realization that transforms his features into something harder, colder.

"She's the reason you left, isn't she?" His voice has dropped to barely above a whisper. "You found out you were pregnant and you ran."

My throat tightens. I manage a stiff nod, unable to form the words that might explain or defend my choice.

Araton goes completely still, the way he does when processing deeply unwelcome information. The dimple in his right cheek—the one that appears only during his rare genuine smiles—is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a muscle works in his jaw as he stares at a point somewhere over my shoulder.

"Three years," he says again, the words hollow. "Three years of her life. Gone."

For a moment, he looks like he might say more—his chest rises with a sharp intake of breath, his lips parting slightly. But instead, he turns away, refusing to meet my gaze. The bronze skin of his neck is taut with tension, his shoulders rigid beneath his traveling clothes.

Without another word, he stalks off, his long strides carrying him quickly away from my garden, my home, my careful life. The last rays of sunlight catch the edges of his wings as he disappears around the corner, throwing shadows that stretch toward me like accusatory fingers.

I slide down the rough wall until I'm sitting in the dirt beside my carefully tended plants, my hands shaking as I press them against my face. The scent of earth clings to my fingers, grounding and familiar when everything else feels like it's crumbling around me.