“You have no interest in her?”
“No. And she doesn’t have an interest in me, either. She’s in love with Lorelei.”
One of his hands was currently resting on her thigh, his thumb moving around her skin in idle circles. She wondered about his hands, never having quite enough courage to ask about them.Whether inward or outward, scars were a delicate topic of discussion, but seeing as how open he was being about things they’d never discussed, Nymiria drew in a deep breath to steady herself before asking the question that nagged at her whenever she saw him quickly stuffing his hand back into his gloves.
He could feel her staring at him, could see her eyes dropping to where his hand was placed upon her leg.
“What happened to your hands, Aziel?” Nymiria whispered.
He was silent for a moment. Though the muscles and tendons in his hands screamed to be hidden, he let her see them. There was not a single piece of his soul that he would not bare to her, even if it caused him pain. Nymiria had dealt with her pain right in front of him. She had confronted the most sinister demons that haunted her in the night. And though it hurt her, she did it with an admirable grace that he only hoped to mimic.
“I held my mother as she died.” He began, flinching slightly as she took his hand between her own. “When a person’s throat is slit, there is…somuch blood. After Camalia was finally able to convince me to let go of my mother, she had the servants bathe me. But every night, foryears, I scrubbed my hands and clawed at them until they bled because I could not get the feeling of her blood off of my hands. When I was twelve, I had a mental lapse. I ended up dousing my hands in Dorid’s alcohol and setting them on fire at the dinner table, forcing him to watch as they burned.” Nymiria peered up at him, her chest aching when she saw the tears glistening in his eyes. “It didn’t help. It never got rid of that feeling. And if I don’t wear the gloves, I’ll eventually start scratching at them again.”
He had been so young. Lilith Haze died in his arms when he was six years old. For a child to have to struggle with that sort of nightmare… it was unimaginable. Nymiria’s heart ached for that child that held his mother, for the boy who couldn’t take his pain anymore, and for the man that still struggled with those memories to this day.
“You don’t wear them when you touch me.” She whispered.
Aziel shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t need to. Touching you… being able to feelyouand not dried blood cracking on my fingers, it’s something I’ve never—" He struggled to find the words to say to her, but the way she looked at him said that he didn't need to explain anything. She understood. “When it comes to what Ido, I don’t want you to believe that I actually enjoykilling people. There is such a thing as a necessary evil, moonflower. And if it meant protecting the ones I love, I would gladly become anyone’s villain.” He paused for a moment, watching as her finger brushed over the raised, disfigured skin on his hands. “Just like respect, brutality isearned. It’s not something I partake in to satisfy some sort of craving. Perhaps it is just another after effect of her death—wanting to destroy the things that hurt the ones I love. I’m sure I felt it then, as a boy, but I’m strong enough now that I can actually do something about it.”
“You don’t have to justify anything, Aziel. There is nothing about you or what you have done that could make me see you any differently. Besides, I would be lying if I told you that I didn’t enjoy it a little,” she sighed. “Knowing that all of those horrible people were dead. Doesn’t really matter how brutal it is, just as long as it happens.”
Nymiria moved into his side, his arm falling around her frame and pulling her against him. “I’ve never told anyone these things before.”
"How about an even exchange?" She asked. "You told me a secret, now I can tell you one of mine." Staying silent, Aziel nodded. She looked at him for just a moment, assessing the melancholy that consumed him before releasing a sigh. She'd never told a single soul about her childhood. As much as she would have liked to, she felt that it was too much of a burden to place on someone. She feared the looks she would receive—the pity, the apologies that would do absolutely nothing to take away the confusion that living with her mother had left her with.
"When I was eight, my mother offered to sell me to a man from overseas in exchange for an alliance. She didn't trust humans or many Mystics, for that matter. She wantedfaealliances. People with power. And this man, thisbeastof a man, had been breeding an army for hundreds of years."
"Breeding—" Aziel sat up straighter, prepared to unleash hateful spillage, but Nymiria simply lifted her hand and patted his thigh. His jaw clenched, hands forming fists at his side.
"Nothing ever came of it. Thorn said some pretty horrible things to my mother that night. I could hear him yelling on the other side of the palace. But, yes, he planned on breeding me. He said that Birthers received luxuries and that I would be taken care of, that I wouldn't have to worry about a thing. Not even raising the child." She worried at her lip, roving over words in her mind that could convey what she wanted to tell. "I was thirteen when my Grace started to show and mother would have me perform for the court. She considered my Grace to be something to entertain guests, but there was one night… I didn't feel well. Though I told her that I felt like I was going to vomit, she insisted. She dragged me from my room by my hair and forced me to grow flowers for everyone. But, being such a young age, I grew tired very quickly. I ended up vomiting on someone." In feeling her body tensing at his side, Aziel uncurled his hand and moved it to where hers rested, their fingers interlocking. His warmth settled over her, comforting the bitter chill of the old wound. "She gave me lashings that night. She forced me to grow my own vine and then whipped me with it."
There were other things, of course. But all of the memories were relatively the same. Inasha could be cruel and dismissive—neglectful, even. She could also be loving at times, bombarding her with gifts and praise as if Nymiria were the most perfect daughter anyone could ask for.
Perhaps that was why Dorid’s treatment of her felt like love at times. That sort of emotional chaos was all she’d ever known.
"If you ever see your mother again, Nymiria, you'd better kill her before I do."
Chapter 33
It was the perfect time to perform a search. Ever since that night in Fairnam, Oran could not rid his mind of the burning questions that lingered—echoing in the darkest parts of his thoughts like stagnant plumes of smoke that clung to thick air long after a fire had gone out.
The mother he knew would have never taken off a ring that he’d gifted her. The motherheknew loved him and was good and kind. For years, he’d tried to ignore the darkness that surrounded her, but it became a thorn under his skin. It kept him awake long into the night.
He’d seen the way this imposter looked at Nymiria. He’d seen the not-so-sly touches she placed upon his brother’s body. It was sickening.Oran’s mother was not that sort of person. He knew her in the only way a son could know their mother. He’d recognize the beat of her heart, for he’d been lulled to sleep by the sound of it from conception until he was old enough to leave the nursery.
She was a mother that tried to give love to all children, not just him. She took Aziel as her own when Lilith died, despite Aziel’s initial rejection of her affections.
The Camalia that sat upon the throne now was not his mother. And that ring was proof.
After seeing Nymiria and Aziel disappear with one another, Oran left his betrothed breathless and blushing at his party—passing her off to the next dance partner before he decided that it was the perfect moment to plan his hunt.
With all of the servants and grounds workers drunk and oblivious, he began.
He started it Camalia’s dressing room, searching through jewelry boxes and drawers until every item was discarded and strewn across the once-spotless surface of her vanity. He tore through the wardrobe, flipped over the bed, and checked every nook and corner that the ring could have been placed.
Oran looked at the mess he made, at the overturned furniture and clutter before moving to her sleeping chambers.
It was the same in this room and, still, he found nothing.
