Page 10

HRAKAN

H er skin’s gone cold, her lips bluish from lying in the abandoned wing of the castle.

“When did you last eat?” I ask her, wanting to shake her into talking to me, into reacting, into anything.

“You don’t get to leave me, Kyrie, do you understand? Not like this.” I shake my head, furious.

Furious with myself.

I was gone for two and a half days. By the time I returned, the castle was in uproar as they searched high and low for Kyrie.

Kyrie, who’s alive, cool to the touch but very much alive.

Alive, and a shadow of herself all at once.

“What happened?” I ask Shae.

With an expert’s precision, she heaves a shovel of hot coals into a cast-iron foot warmer, then another, and another, until there are half a dozen steaming as she carefully fastens each. “I don’t know. Tarron and my daughter saw her last, in the library. Tarron’s beside himself, he thinks he said something to the poor woman to make her run away.”

She clucks her tongue in sympathy, wrapping thick blankets around each foot warmer before tucking them into my bed.

“She’s right filthy, isn’t she? Didn’t run away at all, did you, poor little love?” Shae touches Kyrie’s cheek, and Kyrie simply blinks at her, unanswering.

“I ought to scream at you for what you did to the dear wee thing,” Shae says softly, and I brace myself, wanting her to. Wanting someone to yell at me, to rage.

Wanting that from Kyrie, who simply lies curled up in my arms, broken.

I did that. I broke her.

And I did it on purpose, knowing full well what would happen.

“Fate is unusually cruel to you, Arek,” Shae tells me, flipping the bedsheet back and shoving another pan into the sheets.

“No one’s called me that in centuries,” I say. It’s the name my mother gave me at her knee, the name I had before… before everything changed.

“Maybe we should again. Death is not the only mantle you wear.” Her eyes narrow, and she runs her hands down her skirts as she straightens. “You would do well to remember the male your mother wanted you to be. The one you could still be.”

Arek died the same day my mother did, I almost tell her.

But with Kyrie like this in my arms, silent and still, I simply nod once.

Only the sluggish beat of her heart tells me she lives. Nothing’s wrong with her that either of us can see. No, her wound is deep inside, and out of reach of any suture or poultice.

“You should clean her up,” I tell Shae raggedly.

There’s no aching depression weighing on me from Kyrie’s side of the bond now.

There’s nothing at all, and that terrifies me even more.

I glance around, wild-eyed, at a loss for how to act. How do I make this right?

“You should be the one to clean her up, by the way,” Shae says, narrowing her eyes at me as she adds another hot pan to the bed. “You’re her mate.”

I swallow against the tightness in my throat. “I’ll wash her up.”

Shae nods once, placing the last hot pan in the middle of the bed. “There. That will help warm everything up. She’s in shock, Arek.”

Again, with that name. It sends a shiver of recognition through me.

“She needs to be warmed up. Get the bath about as hot as you can stand it, and get her clean. Dry her hair and braid it to keep it from snarling while she rests.” She hovers beside me, staring at Kyrie with worried eyes. “I’ll fix up a soup for her and see if we can’t get some food into her, alright?”

“Tell Tarron this isn’t his fault at all,” I say slowly. “If I had to bet, I’d guess he kept her from sliding into shock while he was with her.”

“Ah, you may be right about that. She’s a soft touch with the little ones, eh? So young still, herself.”

Shae turns, shaking her head and hustling out the door. Filarion rests next to it, his head on his paws, eyes unblinkingly on me.

“I wish you could talk some sense into Dyrda,” I tell him. “I could have stayed here with Kyrie instead of leaving.”

Filarion doesn’t acknowledge my words, a rough pink tongue lashing out to clean his dinner-plate-sized paw.

I think we both know Dyrda won’t take action until she’s most desperate.

Gritting my teeth, I carry Kyrie through the door to the washroom, where water streams from the copper pipes.

It steams, clouding the air, and my frown deepens in confusion.

It shouldn’t be hot.

We’ve no way of heating the water, and I fully planned on using a well-worn spell to bring it to a comfortable temperature for my mate.

Shae must have done it before she left, when I was preoccupied with the small female in my arms.

“Kyrie, my love, come back to me,” I urge her, my voice quiet but thick with emotion. “I can’t… I don’t want to be here without you.” The words are gruff, each choking me on the way out.

Testing the water temperature of the half-full tub with my hand, I grip her tightly with my other arm, not wanting to harm one hair on her head.

And loathing myself for the fact that I’ve already hurt her so badly that she might not ever come back to me.

Shae said I should talk to her, read to her. That she’s conscious, that she’s not ill, but in shock, thanks to what I fucking did.

“I need to explain,” I tell her roughly.

My hands are gentle as I tug the tunic off her body, holding her up with one arm tight around her waist. It’s like undressing a doll, and she doesn’t resist as I pull off her pants next. There’s nothing sexual about it, and though I find her beautiful, it’s her mind I want.

Her fire, her life, her sass and chaos.

“Yes, even your chaos,” I say out loud, a hot tear spilling from my eye. I’ve been speaking to her this whole time, and I finally step into the tub myself, fully clothed, the water hot to the point of discomfort, holding Kyrie close to me.

She shivers in my arms as I place her on my lap in the water.

The clear water turns murky nearly immediately, and I curse as I work at a stubborn tangle in her hair.

“I need you to know, Kyrie, that I didn’t want to hurt you. That’s why I pushed you away for so long. I knew, I knew you were mine the moment you stepped into my prison cell. I could hear it in your voice, could smell it on your skin, and I’d never wanted anything as much as I wanted you.”

Leaning forward, I turn the copper handle, and the water slows to a trickle before ceasing completely.

“The war with Sola. The first one. It was as much a result of the curse as what I did to you was. Is,” I amend, because I’m still hurting her, even now, when all I want to do is hold her broken edges together until she heals. There’s nothing to hold, nothing to sew shut, and I am sick with knowing I can’t help her.

“There was a prophecy about me, you see.” I inhale deeply, cupping my hand and pouring hot water over Kyrie’s head. It takes dozens of handfuls to soak her thick red hair, and she blinks as it trickles over her face. “Death will rise hand-in-hand with chaos. The world will fall, the Fae will break, and what once was never will be again as he takes his bride of lies.”

I shake my head, my shirt sticking to my skin. I should have undressed too. Dirt clings to my skin and clothes from my long round trip on horseback, and I’m sure I smell terrible.

“You would hate how I smell right now.” I nudge her with my shoulder as I peel the sodden cloth from my torso. My pants will have to stay on for now. “You would be so mad at me for getting you in the tub and taking care of you.”

She’s so cold still, despite the heat of the tub. Chilled skin, slow heartbeat, and it makes my own ache in response.

“I would do anything to help you,” I say, tasting salt on my lips. “I know you hate me, Kyrie, I wanted you to. Thought it would be easier for you if you did.”

Maybe that’s what I need to do.

Make her hate me more.

Make her feel something again, even if it’s rage at me.

This… this nothingness emanating from her?—

“I can’t stand it,” I continue, working at the tangles and dirt caking her hair as gently as my calloused fingers will allow. “I can’t stand seeing you like this. I can take all your fire, but I can’t stand to see it cooled.”

She’s not there.

She’s a shell of herself, and I don’t think even I can follow where she’s gone.

I keep talking, though, keep filling the most devastating silence I’ve ever heard with my own voice.

When I finally stop, my voice rasping in my throat from overuse, it’s so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat.

Kyrie, Kyrie, it seems to say.