“Like who?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know the answer. Something about the way he said it makes dread crawl up my spine.
Mabon rolls his amethyst eyes as if I’m being deliberately obtuse, which maybe I am. “The one who made him a rhocyn, obviously. Big, muscled, a half-orc. Probably thought he was very impressive.” His voice takes on a mocking tone that cuts like glass. “Just like you.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I actually rock back on my heels, the blood draining from my face as everything suddenly, horrifically clicks into place.
The look on Dyfri’s face the first time he saw me at Buckingham Palace. That expression of dread, of resignation, of someone preparing for the worst. The way Rhydian had tried to dismiss me before Dyfri even arrived, telling me I wouldn’t do. Dyfri’s unease on our wedding night, the way he’d flinched when I reached for him like I was something to be endured rather than embraced.
His comments yesterday about being larger and stronger. About how that made me inherently dangerous.
He’s been trying to tell me. In his careful, sideways way, he’s been trying to explain why my size, my build, my very presence must trigger memories of the worst abuse he ever suffered.
And I’ve been too bloody stupid to understand.
“Oh God,” I breathe, sinking into a chair as the full horror of it washes over me. “Oh, Dyfri.”
How many times have I touched him without thinking? How many times has he hidden his fear because he thought that was what I expected? How many sleepless nights has he spent lying beside me, afraid that I might turn into the monster that haunts his memories?
The guilt and horror fester into something hotter, more violent. I look up at Mabon, this delicate, flighty prince who sat by and did nothing while his brother was tortured.
“Why didn’t you help him?” I snarl, my voice rough with emotion. “Why did you do nothing?”
Mabon blinks his strange purple eyes, then sniffs delicately. “You don’t understand how court works.”
“I understand that you’re a nasty little shit!” The words explode out of me before I can stop them, years of rugby training giving my voice a volume that makes the teacups rattle. “I understand that if you had been forced to becomea rhocyn, Dyfri would have moved heaven and earth to help you!”
The effect of my words is immediate, but not what I expected. Mabon’s eyes flash with something dangerous, his beautiful features twisting with sudden fury that transforms his face into something almost feral.
“How dare you!” he hisses, rising to his feet with a lethal grace that reminds me he’s far more than just a pretty face. The half-full teacup falls discarded to the floor to roll forgotten on the carpet, leaving a dark stain on the cream fabric. “You think you understand anything? You think I had choices?” His voice rises to something approaching a shriek that makes my ears ring. “I was barely more than a child! What was I supposed to do, challenge the entire court system for him?”
The raw pain beneath his anger is unmistakable, and I realise I’ve struck something much deeper than his vanity. There’s something broken in his voice, something that speaks of old wounds that never properly healed.
“I may be beautiful and fabulous and absolutely perfect,” he continues, his voice cracking slightly despite his defiant words, “but I am not powerful. Not like that. Not then.”
Before I can say anything else, before I can apologise or take back my cruel words, he’s fleeing, disappearing through the wall with a dramatic swirl of silk robes, just as Dyfri walks in from his bathroom.
I stare at the spot where Mabon vanished, my heart hammering with guilt and rage and a dozen other emotions I can’t name.
“I’m... I’m sorry,” I say, turning to face my husband, the words feeling inadequate for the magnitude of what just happened.
Dyfri looks mildly confused, glancing from me to the abandoned tea service and the stain spreading across the carpet. “Don’t worry. Mabon loves nothing better than flouncing off dramatically.”
But I’m barely listening to his words because I’m staring at what he’s wearing. Full fey court regalia, elaborate robes in darkest black that seem to absorb light, his impressive horns on full display and his hair done up in the ribbons I gave him, arranged in the complex style he wears for official functions. He looks like he’s dressed for a formal audience, not a quiet morning at home.
“Where have you been?” I ask, and I can hear the suspicion creeping into my voice despite my best efforts.
“Attending to some business,” Dyfri says carefully, his expression becoming guarded in that way that means he’s choosing his words very deliberately. “Nothing important.”
The evasion hits me like a slap. After everything we shared yesterday, after all his talk about trust and safety and hope, he’s still keeping secrets from me.
I feel sick. Sick with the knowledge of what I representto him, sick with the realisation that despite everything, he still doesn’t trust me completely. And maybe he never will. Maybe every time he looks at me, all he sees is someone who could hurt him the way that monster did.
Maybe I’ve been deluding myself about everything.
“Jack?” Dyfri’s voice sounds concerned now. “Are you alright? You look...”
“I’m fine,” I lie, just like he’s lying to me. “Just tired.”
But I’m not fine. I’m drowning in the horrible understanding of what I am to him, what I represent, and the growing certainty that no matter how much I care about him, some wounds run too deep to ever fully heal.
