“Faylinn?” I whispered, not daring to believe that she was here, willing to speak to me. The last time I’d seen her was when Razia and Solace attacked Lishahl. She’d appeared with her Bonded but barely acknowledged my existence.
“It’s Fay,” she said, voice hard even as she nervously canted her eyes around my room.
“Fay,” I repeated slowly and watched my daughter wince.
“Only Rohak and a few close friends call me Faylinn,” she admitted, her posture softening at just the mention of his name. My lips quirked in a small smile as I relaxed back in my chair, despite the fact that I wanted to jump from it and hold her tightly against me.
My daughter washere.
Silence hung between us, awkwardness and discomfort lacing every minor movement and shuffle of feet.
Once upon a time, back in Isrun, we moved together beautifully, like two parts of a song twining together into a perfect melody. Now that all of my secrets were revealed, however, it was disjointed and practically nonexistent.
“I’m sorry?—”
“Why didn’t you?—”
We both started at the same time before gesturing for the other to speak first. I mimed closing my lips before encouraging my daughter to speak. She took her time, gathering her thoughts and breath in a move that was so like Holt’s it made my heart hurt. I rubbed the skin above my sternum, willing the ache to dissipate.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Fay asked, her voice barely above a whisper, eyes so much like her father’s, holding immeasurable amounts of pain. “You had all the time in the world.Yearstogether in Isrun. But instead, you . . . fucked off to gods know where and left me alone to deal with Holt’s—Dad’s—death. You could have been my mother, but you chose not to. Why?”
Her accusations cut me to the bone, to my very soul, and I bit back a sob as I saw the same emotions roiling in my gut reflected in my daughter’s eyes.
Pain. Betrayal. Loss. Hurt. And, despite it all, love.
There’s still hope, I thought. I hadn’t fucked it up completely.
“I couldn’t,” I said with a small shake of my head. “My bargain with Fate wouldn’t allow it.”
Fay huffed and rolled her eyes, deflecting from the pain written in the rigidity of her posture.
“I know all about his bargains,” she quipped, and I cocked my head, curious as to what bargain she made with her grandfather.
One he hasn’t told me about. That thought alone made me uneasy, but it wasn’t what I needed to speak to Fay about now. It could wait—hopefully.
“Would you like to sit?” I asked, gesturing to the other wingback chair in the room. It flanked mine, separated only by a small wooden table that held a stack of books. Fay’s eyes sparked as she ran her gaze over the spines, fingers twitching slightly at her side as if wanting to reach for them.
“You can read any of them,” I said softly, dropping my hand back into my lap where I twined my fingers together. “What’s mine is yours,” I added, though that comment seemed to darken Fay’s expression.
“Except for the truth, hmm?” she snapped, but padded across the threadbare rug to the other chair, pulling it slightly away from mine before sinking down cautiously.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Fay,” I said once she was comfortable in her seat. She sat like I did, feet bare, curled beneath her bottom as if she wanted to disappear into the chair entirely. My lips quirked at the similarity.
“So you just, what, trained me for years while knowing I was your daughter, watched me grow close to my father without knowing he was my father, and just . . . felt nothing?”
I shook my head, involuntarily reached for my daughter, and winced when she flinched away from my touch.
It would take months, years, to heal the hurt I’d caused; enough to where she’d let me embrace her fully.
“I wanted to tell you, every minute of every day. Holt, too. But we couldn’t. So we did the next best thing—raise you as well as we could and provide you skills that would be useful as you grew older. Holt knew he would never leave Isrun,” I said quietly, watching as Fay played with the clear crystal on her neck.
Her eyebrows shot up at my admission, her movements stilled. “He knew he would die?”
I nodded.
Fay chuffed a laugh and shook her head, curls bouncing around her face. “And here I thought it was my fault.”
“No,” my voice cracked across the space, causing my daughter’s eyes to widen once more. “No,” I repeated softer. “It was not your fault. Certain things were always meant to happen.”
