“I don’t want blood.”
“What do you want?” Hatthar asks.
Rath watches me, silent, the flames flickering in his face.
My lips twist. “I don’t know. You want me to bring out a ledger of every blow, every slight, so you can make recompense one by one andbe done with it.It doesn’t work like that. I don’t remember everything. Not with my mind. Just to live my life, I had to bury so many memories, so deep, so I could close my eyes without questioning my worth even in my sleep.”
“Then we start with what you do remember,” Hatthar says. “What is the first bad memory?”
“I don’t want to do this.” I stand before I realize it.
“Sit,” Rath says softly. “It’s safe with us around the fire, but there are still dangers in the forest.”
He’s not wrong. I sit, reluctantly. I’m not going to go running off into the dark in a storm of tears like an idiot.
“The first,” Rath says.
Haven’t I dreamed of this? Having them at my mercy as I railed about every word, every stone, every hurt they ever hurled at me in the name ofdeflection?Even after I was old enough to realize deflection had become something else. Had become a way to cope.
Fiuthen and his poverty, his low status as an orphan, enduring constant mockery.
Lathhan with his internal battle to fight a repugnant, dark nature.
Hatthar and his constant need toprovehe was the strongest, the fastest, the worthiest because being second best meant he was nothing.
Iloni. Daughter of a mother who couldn’t be sure the girl she’d born wasn’t a product of her own rape, the torture that had shaped her hatred toward Humans. But instead of taking it out on Iloni, the Matriarch had found an easier target. Me.
And then, Rathhur.
The one trying to bind us together, trying to keep his parents from spiraling, trying to protect his sister, heal and defend against his mother.
He hadn’t cared about me at first. That came later. Once he’d come to care, it had been noticed.
I can let my past turn me bitter, vengeful, like his mother. I can find someone weaker to offload my hurt on. Or I can face it, and accept why they keep trying to offer. Acknowledgment. Healing. Recompense. It wouldn’t work if they weren’t sincere, but. . .they’ve never been liars. And the males they arenow, I think I can trust.
“This is the purpose of bloodgilt,” Lathhan says. “When there’s hurt so heinous it can’t be resolved without an eye for an eye. Rath won’t let you go this time. Choose how you can move past this.”
“I don’t have to?—”
“You do.Rathhur will not let you go.Choose how you will heal.”
I stare at Lathhan, at his cool, intent gaze, and understand the true nature of his ultimatum; it’s an offer. A way out. If there’s no choice but to accept, I can still respect myself.
Though I know it’s a mind game, I feel relief. “The only time I can endure blood is in a birthing bed. Fine. The first bad memory.”
That is how we spend the next several hours. Recounting my hurts one by one, until my voice is hoarse. I don’t know when Rath moves to my side of the fire and takes me in his arms, letting me weep on his chest. I don’t know when the boys pile up against us, adding their warmth and weight. But I know that by morning, we’ve begun to lance the infection.
EIGHT
Swearing,I smack a bug away from my bare stomach. In defense against the heat, I’ve stripped down to my breastband and exchanged trousers for a knee length wrap of cloth around my waist. The boys stripped down days ago, and Maezii claims it’s colder up in the air so she’s comfortable enough. The tradeoff is insects.
One buzzes too close and I huff.
Rath closes his fist around it in a snap of movement, crushing the pest then flicking it away. He glances at me with a look that says, see how helpful I am?
I pat his thigh. Yes, very helpful. Such a good boy.
He kisses my temple, pleased, and remains alert for more insects that come too close.
