The kingdom that should have been my safe haven operated on rules that forbade vulnerability. Tears were weakness. Sadness was failure. The raw expression of emotion—any emotion other than carefully calibrated responses designed to serve political purposes—invited consequences that made suppression seem like the only viable option.
But here...
In this cocooned paradise...
Surrounded by flowers and vines and thorns...
With her looking at me with those impossible new eyes that seem to see everything I've been hiding...
Maybe I can cry.
She doesn't judge me when the first tear falls.
The realization arrives with shock that probably shouldn't surprise me as much as it does. Gwenievere—this woman who has survived trials that would have destroyed lesser beings, who has bonded with men of impossible power, who carries destinies that extend beyond anything my own existence encompasses—watches a tear track down my cheek with nothing but compassion in her transformed gaze.
She should judge.
Should think less of me for this display of weakness.
Should recognize that the strong men who surround her would never crumble like this, never allow themselves such public vulnerability, never surrender composure in ways that suggest they might not be worthy of the Queen they've claimed.
Everyone outside this cocoon of vines and thorns is willing to sacrifice themselves for her. Cassius with his shadows, Atticus with his blood magic, Mortimer with his dragon fire, Zeke with his feline grace, even Damien with his complicated redemption—they all present themselves as beacons of strength and resilience, as pillars she can rely upon when everything else fails.
But I'm here.
Shedding tears.
Feeling incomplete.
Demonstrating exactly the kind of weakness that should disqualify me from standing among her bond mates.
She reaches over.
The motion is smooth, unhesitating, carrying the particular confidence of someone who has decided upon a course of action and refuses to second-guess themselves. Her arms wrap around my neck with gentle strength, pulling me into an embrace that I don't deserve but desperately need.
Warmth.
Her warmth, surrounding me the way my cocoon surrounds us both.
Protection offered freely, without expectation or demand.
Her hand settles against my back, and she begins to rub—slow circles that carry comfort in their rhythm, pressure that seems to understand exactly what my body needs to feel less alone.
"It's okay to not be okay, Nikolai."
The whisper reaches my ears with the particular intimacy of words meant only for me.
"Either way... I'm sorry."
Sorry.
She's apologizing.
When none of this is her fault.
I was the one at fault.
The truth crashes through me with force that makes my breath catch in something that might be a sob if I let it fully escape.
