Lucien caught her face in his hands and drew her mouth up to his in a punishing kiss. Brave, stubborn Ianthe. What would he do without her?
"You have something to say," Ianthe said, pouring herself a cup of tea and trying to stop her hands from shaking after that little revelation. Lucien had just left to arm himself, and they needed to get moving, but she could feel Drake watching her. "Spit it out. Do you think I'm wrong to hold him to our bond?"
"No." Drake leaned back in his chair, looking tired. "I think you're possibly the only thing that could hold him together through this."
She took a mouthful of tepid tea and frowned. "What do you mean by that?"
"Demons cannot force a human to do anything; it has something to do with that inner strength of will that shields us at our very core. We naturally resist intrusions to our very sense of self. So they toy with emotions, Ianthe. Fear, loneliness, and lack of hope all give the creature a path to slowly chisel away at. Once a man gives up hope, he hasn't the means to fight the creature, but Lucien's feelings for you are powerful. That gives him strength."
"Will it be enough?" she whispered.
"I don't know."
Ianthe set the cup down. Silence weighed heavy in the room. "You do know that I'm sorry." And now she wasn't speaking about Lucien.
"There is nothing to forgive."
"I gave them the Blade, Drake! It could bring you down, and you know it, and—"
A hand pressed gently over hers. "There is nothing to forgive," he repeated in a quiet, firm voice and squeezed her fingers.
Tears sprang into her eyes, her throat thickening. "You have always been too good to me."
"Your greatest problem, Ianthe, is the fact that you don't believe yourself worthy of kindness. You are more than worthy. In fact, you should demand it. Sometimes I should like to take your father by the throat and beat him bloody for what he's done to you."
"He's not my father," she whispered, feeling it for the first time in her veins. "You are. You always have been. If you'll have me."
With a choked sound, Drake drew her into his arms and kissed the top of her forehead. "I could not be prouder to call myself thus."
Ianthe rested her forehead against his shoulder. All her life she'd felt like she was an abomination. No matter what she did, she was always wrong, and the guilt of all of her choices had been a silent condemnation of her own making. It was Grant Martin's voice that she heard in her head still, telling her she had lost the blade and cost poor Eleanor whatever torment she was suffering at the moment.
She could listen to Grant Martin's voice forever, if she let herself, but it was Drake's words, Drake's love for her that pushed her to see that to do so would only be a lie. She was tired of lies. She was tired of guilt.
She deserved better for herself.
"I will help you get Eleanor back." A weight had lifted from her shoulders. Purpose descended, cool, crystal, and decisive. "I promise you we will get both her and the Blade back. Then we shall make Morgana rue the day she stepped foot in our lives. But first," she said, standing and brushing the wrinkles from her skirts, "I must make sure my daughter is well, and then I will check on my Shield."
Drake's lips curled in a faint smile. "That's the first time you've called her that." He was happy for her, despite his own problems. "It's about time you realized you are the best thing that ever happened to Louisa. Now go and be her mother."
"I will," she promised, looking him directly in the eye, "on one condition."
"Oh?"
"The next time you look your stubborn son in the eye, you need to promise that you'll set aside your own sense of guilt too."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cleo had never thought herself a violent woman, but she was considering poison as she sat and sipped her tea the following morning with Morgana. You are in bed with a monster. The words kept repeating in her mind. Poison would be too kind.
"You look... tired, my dear. Sebastian's been kind to you?" Morgana seemed exuberant this morning. She kept humming under her breath.
"Quite." Until she knew the full extent of the situation she had found herself in, Cleo didn't dare be too rude.
"You know," Morgana stirred her tea, then tapped her teaspoon on the top of it before setting it aside with a clink, "you and I could become friends."
That did it. Cleo couldn't contain her bitter laugh. "Friends?"
"It is better to be friends than to be enemies," her mother-in-law said.
