He nods slowly. “That’s the one.”
The last of whatever air I’d had in my chest whooshes out of me as my mind begins to spin and churn, my thoughts spiraling like a whirlpool in a river, spinning my head, yanking me down.
“Pregnant,” I say, staring off, not seeing anything. “She’s pregnant.” My voice is nothing but a hoarse whisper.
It’s Midas’s baby. It has to be.
The sound of a crunch makes my head tilt down, and my eyes fall to the stems of peonies I’ve accidentally crushed inside the curl of my fist. I didn’t even feel that I’d grabbed them again.
I quickly drop them, but pieces of broken green are stuck to my glove, the stems snapped in half.
Mist is pregnant with Midas’s baby.
Mist, who’s been the most vocal, the most vehement in her hate for me. She’spregnantwith Midas’s illegitimate heir.
Tears slip down my face, but I can’t feel the heat of them against my fevered cheeks.
A baby.Midas’s baby.
Something he warned me, again and again, that I could never have. He couldn’t afford to have a bastard with me. Not when Queen Malina never fell pregnant. I’m his Precious, not his breeder. He said it wouldn’t be right to his wife.
A sob scrapes up my throat, jagged edges of frozen rock making me bleed. I want to hide beneath the furs again, block out every revealing light, every raw chill. I want Hojat to take it all back, for this to be an elaborate lie.
But I know it’s not. I can see the truth of it in the mender’s twisted face.
Whenever we were intimate, Midas never finished inside me. He never wanted to risk it. With his saddles, he was always more careless. I tried not to let it bother me, because I knew they all took something to prevent pregnancy. But me, he never wanted to give me that herb, said he wouldn’t risk me taking it after one of the saddles got really sick and died from it.
From my peripheral, I notice Hojat trade a look with the commander and say something quietly, but I’m too devastated to listen.
He slings the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and walks out of the tent, and as soon as the flaps close out the night air, I drop my head into my hands. My palms curl over my eyes, tears dropping into them like they’re slowly filling cups.
Cracks. So many cracks in the glass.
How did that happen? How did I get here, when I thought I’d never have to look through broken things again? So long as my reflection was with Midas, I thought it would always be whole and good and clear. And yet, these cracks keep appearing, keep splintering.
I know Midas has sex with all of his saddles. Hell, he shows it off. Having me watch, having me there like a silent bystander behind gilded bars. Maybe he thought of it as his way to include me, as warped as that seems.
I managed to quell the grieving hurt of it over the years, but this… Mist’s stomach is going to swell with a child she made with the man I love. How can I quellthat?
The truth of it sinks in, lower and lower, like rough sediment at the bottom of a pond, sharp against bare feet, muddying up the water.
I always preferred to ignore it. To shove away all the bad and look at the good. But Mist being pregnant changes things from lustful, meaningless liaisons to something else. Somethingmore.
All of Mist’s hate makes so much more sense now.
In her eyes, I’m the woman he puts on a pedestal. She doesn’t just have to worry about the queen, but me too. And here she is, carrying his child.
Great Divine, what a mess.
I pick my head up, lashes stuck together with wet hurt, throat cinched tight. Rip is sitting on his pallet now, the low lighting of the coals and lantern pitching him in shadow and flame. A villain to spectate my stumbles.
Whatever was in that vial has already helped the itchiness in my throat, but the tightness in my chest, the feeling of the tent closing in on me, that isn’t going away, though it has nothing to do with my being sick.
“Go ahead,” I say, tone numb, eyes flat. “Go ahead and gloat. Drive your wedge between Midas and me. Make me question everything. Make me doubt and rage and flounder.”
I want to slap him. I want to let my ribbons come out and sendhimflying backwards. I want to fight and storm, just so I don’t have to feel this crushing grief.
The harsh planes of Rip’s cheekbones look even sharper right now, the pointed tips of his ears a stark reminder of what he is. My opponent. My enemy. A fae renowned for his cruelty. And right now, that’s exactly what I want.
