I did not choose this life. It was forced upon me. But I’ve come to understand my place here, this feeling of belonging. I’ve learned I am brave and rash and selfless and compulsive and angry and wounded, and I feel no shame for who I am. I do not think about what I lack, as I once did. Rather, I recognize all that I’ve found in these derelict halls: companionship, passion, trust. And, yes, even love.
So maybe I did not choose this life in the beginning, but what if, instead, it chose me?
“Why do you hesitate?”
I gasp, whirling around as the fire gutters to embers.
Gradually, a shape refines into sharper focus, broad-shouldered and trim. Shadows scatter and reform around it. I spot the curve of a thigh, the rise of a pale cheekbone, and lastly, the glint of a single, unwavering blue eye.
Two ragged heartbeats pass before I’m able to speak. “How long have you been standing there?”
Boreas steps into the light. “Long enough.”
Red fires the ends of his black hair. The tips of his canines peak out, sinking into his lower lip, and the smooth skin of his gloveless hands darkens.
“I was—”
“Planning my demise?”
Boreas rounds the low couch. He nearly reaches me before my body remembers the danger of an approaching predator. I pivot, skirting theenormous bed with its multitude of pillows. My back hits the wall, the air tightening between us with an undeniable pull.
“My wife,” he says coldly, his mouth a hairsbreadth from mine. “The liar.”
There’s no justifying my presence in his bedroom. He knows. His lack of surprise is evidence enough.
“I will ask you again,” he says. “Why do you hesitate?”
I cannot answer. I refuse. A drowning man clings to any lifeline.
Boreas lifts his hand. I’m so tense that I revert to my first memory of him, the creak of the battered wooden door opening upon his arrival at Edgewood, and I flinch.
He goes still, his hand near enough to my cheek that I feel its heat. “Is this how it will be?” he asks quietly. “Do you fear me?”
My throat squeezes as hot shame washes through me. I did, once. “No,” I whisper. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“I thought the same.”
His gaze falls to the vial clutched in my hand. One by one, he pries my fingers open to reveal the scarlet liquid contained inside the glass. Nothing but shoots and leaves, a means to end his life. The idea rooted inside me. I tried to kill it, yet it revived itself.
He says, in a tone heavy with fatigue, “Zephyrus.”
If he knows, there’s little point in denying it. I could blame all of this on his brother, but I must take accountability for my own actions. I am the one who approached Zephyrus about a sleep tonic. Only me.
“You mentioned Zephyrus needed herbs from the Garden of Slumber,” Boreas says, “but you never mentioned who the tonic was for.” He stares at me. “Who needed the draught so desperately you were willing to risk your life entering Sleep’s territory to steal the plants?”
It’s hard to breathe. The way he looks at me, with so much mistrust… But I’ve lied enough, I think. To him, and to myself. “I did.”
Another stretch of silence passes. It frays against my skin. “I knew my brother would attempt to poison you against me. I have knownthis from the moment you met him. He did the same with my late wife, Lyra.”
The one killed by bandits. The mother of his son.
“You remind me of her,” he says.
My head snaps up. When our eyes meet, I’m surprised by the affection in his gaze. Surely I am imagining it.
“Rash?” My voice wavers.
“Loyal and brave,” he says, “and bearing the heart of a lion.”
