“Because you and Alaric cling to your secrets.” I stepped toward him, fists trembling at my sides. “Neither of you has been honest since I got here.”
He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t fight back either. He only stepped closer, slow and deliberate, hand outstretched. “Come. I’ll tell you everything. But not here.”
I stared at his hand, heart thundering. Would he give me the truth, or another carefully crafted lie meant to keep me docile?
The intensity of his gaze held me, stormy and bare in a way I’d never seen.
With a frustrated sigh, I placed my palm in his.
Wordlessly, we left the throne room, slipping through a narrow door off the dais I hadn’t noticed before. My shoulders remained pinched, every step I took beside him a battle between anger and sanity. His grip on my hand was firm but not forceful, as if he feared I might bolt if he held on too tight.
I wanted to demand answers. To yell and punish him for all the secrets and half-truths. But the sight of Thorne’s taut shoulders and clenching jaw silenced me. He looked like one of Pyrrhus’s shattered statues, once perfectly carved, now broken with regret. For the first time, I wondered if the truth would break us both.
Finally, we reached a door untouched by ruin. Thorne pushed it open, the low creak loud in the silence that had fallen.
“Where are we?” My voice was raspy from shouting, pleading with a goddess who would not answer.
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes dark and weary. “My private wing.”
Something in me faltered. His private wing. It felt like stepping into his chest, into the part of him he never allowed anyone else to see. And yet here I was, hand in his, as though I had a right.
I hesitated on the threshold, head filled with flashes of memory. “I’ve been here before.”
His gaze flicked toward me, a ghost of a smile curving his lips. “Yes, you have, little spy. The night you watched me from the secret tunnels.”
My eyes swept the chamber. The once ransacked space was now neat and orderly, the damaged furniture replaced. Fresh linens covered the mattress. And yet, if you looked closely, scars remained. A scorch mark across the stone near the hearth. Gouges clawed into the wooden doorframe.
“You cleaned,” I said, voice unsteady.
He poured himself a drink, a surprising tremor in his hand. “Myrna refused to do it. Said since I wrecked the place, I should set it to rights.” He angled the bottle in my direction, his brows arched in question. I shook my head.
“So, it was you who…” Smashed everything. I swallowed. “It wasn’t easy, was it? Coming back here.”
His wince was sharp, fleeting. He took a long swallow from the glass before answering. “No. It wasn’t easy.” His gaze drifted to the bed, to the walls, but didn’t linger. As though he couldn’t bear to look too closely at his own past.
He sank into a wing-backed chair while I settled at the foot of his bed. “Tell me, Thorne. If you’ve set this room to rights, why won’t you do the same with the truth? Don’t you think it’s time someone heard the full story?”
“I’m afraid it isn’t a happy tale, and not entirely mine alone to tell.” He twirled the liquid in his glass, troubled eyes staring into the mini vortex. “Over a millennium ago, Pyrrhus was one of but a handful of kingdoms Hathor entrusted with a sacred tree. In exchange for this gift, those touched by the gods would form a covenant with the arbor. To rule was to serve—each king seated on the throne was joined to the tree. Every ruler left something behind, a fragment of themselves, so the next could inherit more than a crown.”
I found myself watching his hands instead of the words. How his grip tightened on the crystal, knuckles whitening as if tormented by that oath, centuries later.
“What happened to your arbor?” I asked, though part of me already knew. The weight in his tone said it all.
He finally lifted his gaze, and his haunted expression made my stomach twist. “The Dark One happened.”
The words cracked the air between us.
“In his quest for power, he targeted the trees. Pyrrhus was the first he destroyed, our tree falling victim to The Dark One’s unquenchable thirst.” Thorne’s countenance darkened, flames dancing behind his eyes.
I pressed my fingers to my throat, sickened by the loss. “So not only did he ravage your kingdom, he devoured its heart.”
Thorne drained his glass then dropped it onto the table, letting it clank. “Hathor was enraged. As punishment for breaking our oath to protect her gift, she cursed Alaric to remain in his beast form.”
My breath stuttered, the missing pieces of Pyrrhus’s puzzle falling into place. “So, it was Hathor who cursed him.”
“That was why he believed you could set him free.”
“Because I’m her handmaiden,” I grated.
