Widow, a cruel voice in my head corrected.You’re a widow. Navaire is dead.
But that didn’t make this better. If anything, it made it worse.
The guilt hit me so hard I doubled over, my hands pressed to my stomach as if I could somehow contain the sick twist of betrayal that was eating me alive. How could I have done this? How could I have let myself find comfort in another man’s touch when Navaire was barely cold in the ground?
Except he wasn’t in the ground at all, was he? There had been no body to bury, no grave to visit. Just the memory of blood on stone and the way his eyes had gone dark and empty while I screamed his name.
“I’m sorry,” I choked out, the words scraping against my throat like broken glass. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—I never should have?—”
“Breathe.” Varyth’s command cut through my spiral. “Isara, breathe.”
I tried to obey, dragging air into my lungs in ragged gasps that did nothing to ease the tightness in my chest. My hands were shaking, my vision blurring at the edges as panic carved through me.
I’d never shared a bed with anyone but Navaire. Never woken in another man’s arms, never felt the warmth of unfamiliar skin against mine.
This felt like a violation of something sacred. Like I’d taken the memory of what Navaire and I had shared and trampled it beneath my feet.
“I can’t—” My voice broke completely. “I can’t do this.”
Varyth didn’t try to touch me. Didn’t reach for me or offer empty comfort.
“I loved him,” I whispered, the confession torn from somewhere deep. “I loved him so much it felt like dying when they took him from me. And I—how could I?—”
“You were having nightmares,” Varyth said quietly. “You were terrified and exhausted and your magic was eating you alive from the inside out. You needed comfort, and I provided it. Nothing more.”
But it felt like more. It felt like betrayal and want and a dozen other things I didn’t have names for. It felt like the first fracture in the armour I’d built around Navaire’s memory, and I couldn’t bear it.
“I should go,” I said, already moving toward the edge of the bed. “Check on my children, find somewhere else to?—”
“Your children are safe.” Varyth interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. “It’s early. They’re likely still sleeping.”
“This can’t happen again,” I said, finally finding the courage to look at him directly. “Whatever this was—comfort, necessity, temporary insanity—it can’t happen again.”
Something flickered across his features, too quick for me to interpret. “If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what needs to happen.” I stood on unsteady legs, smoothing down my rumpled clothes with hands that trembled. “I’m not—I can’t?—”
“I understand,” Varyth said gently.
But did he? Could anyone understand the weight of loving someone so completely that their absence felt like a missing limb? Could anyone comprehend the guilt that came with finding even a moment’s peace in the arms of another?
I didn’t think so. But I nodded anyway, because it was easier than trying to explain the war raging in my chest.
“Thank you,” I said stiffly, the words formal and distant. “For last night. For keeping the nightmares away. But I?—”
“You don’t owe me gratitude, Isara.” The words were quiet, resigned. “You needed help, and I provided it. That’s all.”
That’s all. Such simple words for something that felt anything but simple.
I moved toward the door on legs that felt like water, desperate to escape before I said something I couldn’t take back.
Before I confessed that the guilt eating me alive wasn’t just about betraying his memory, it was about how right it had felt to wake in Varyth’s arms.
I fled Varyth’s chambers, moving through corridors that bore the scorch marks of my nighttime rampage. Servants pressed themselves against walls as I passed, staring with a mixture of fear and curiosity that made my skin crawl.
The guilt followed me like a shadow, whispering accusations with every step.How could you? How could you forget him so easily? How could you find comfort in another’s arms when his body isn’t even cold?
Except it had been over a year since Navaire died. A year of running, hiding, surviving. A year of nights spent clutching his memory like a lifeline while the world tried to tear everything else away.
