I freeze in the doorway, sigil flaring, ready for another fight. But when I turn, she's smiling. Not the sad smile from before. Something fiercer. Something proud.
"You, Ada the Tempest, are unequivocally your mother's daughter."
Chapter Twenty-Four
The walk home feels like wading through water. Every step is a fight. I cling to Sara's final words because the alternative is acknowledging the truth.
My father is a murderous tyrant.
My stomach turns. How am I supposed to live with that?
How am I supposed to look Malachi in the eyes? His kingdom is cursed because of my parents. Pia may not have intended it, but her flight to Tenebris was the catalyst. The match that lit the fire.
Gods. He must hate her.
They all must.
That thought hits harder than knowing who my father is. I slow as I reach my building, pressing my back against the wall to steady myself. Above me, the sky bleeds crimson. The blood moon hasn't set. It watches me like a wound that won't close. I shut my eyes and try to breathe.
I'll go inside. Find a map of the tunnels. Figure out the fastest route to the Hall of Gratitude. Malachi will ask questions, and I'll tell him the truth.
Part of it, anyway. My brother is there. That much I can say. The rest? I can't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The thought of how he'll look at me when he learns who my father is breaks something in my chest. A monster's daughter. Even if he could look past it, I'm not sure I could.
He gave up his wings. His raffin. His freedom. Three centuries of his life, suspended in nothing. Because of that curse. Because of my family.
My knees give out. I slide down the wall and pull my knees to my chest, making myself as small as possible. For once in my life, I feel like the child the Sages never allowed me to be.
I think of the boy at the ceremony. The one who looked like Cas. The way he resisted until the very end, until there was nothing left to resist with. Thousands of people have suffered that fate.
Maybe more. Because of me. My safety cost them their freedom. That's the cruelty of it all.
Even setting aside the elixirs I brewed for ten years, all of it still leads back to me. Not Jordi. Me. Jordi is Cato's son.
But I'm the one who inherited Pia's healing gift. I'm the one Cato truly wants. The key to breaking the curse. Or becoming his next victim.
A sob builds in my chest. I swallow it down. This is something I cannot hide from Malachi. I won't.
Not because I owe Mortiana a debt, but because I owe it to him. To Kage. To Draven. To all of Tenebris. They could have turned Pia away when she fled to them. They sheltered her instead. And they've been paying for that kindness ever since.
The healer's hands will break the chain, but the price of freedom is all she contains.I don't know what those words mean. Am I meant to die, like all the healers who tried before me? To be drained by my own father until nothing remains?
I take a breath. Another. I cannot fall apart. Not again. Not yet. I think of everything Pia endured. Everything she sacrificed.If she could face Cato while carrying his children, I can stand up and walk inside my own building.
I feel Malachi before I see him. His presence floods the bond, urgent and sharp. I lift my head. He's at the top of the stairs, silhouetted against the flickering lights. The moment he sees me, he moves, descending so fast his feet barely seem to touch the steps.
I tip my head back to look at him, and something in my chest tightens. He looks like a warrior standing in the aftermath of battle. The bleeding sky frames him like one of Freida's old paintings, the ones depicting gods and wars and terrible beauty. It feels like an omen.
My sigil flares, and I realize what I'm feeling isn't mine. His anger. Barely contained, burning through the bond like wildfire. I'd forgotten how it feels. Destructive. Unforgiving. Ready to consume everything in its path.
I haul myself off the ground and tip my head back to meet his gaze.Gods. Even scowling, he's devastating. Maybe more so. The rage suits him somehow, sharpening all those already dangerous edges. Not that I'd ever tell him that.
I'd never admit that I love the stubble darkening his jaw. Or how many hours I spent imagining what it would feel like to sink my fingers into his hair before I finally did. Or that I've memorized the flecks of brown and black in those golden eyes.
I'd never admit that when his jaw flexes like it's doing now, something low in my stomach tightens. Or that the same thing happens every time he says "fuck," even though the word still catches me off guard.
"Keep looking at me like that, Menace." His voice is rough. "And I'll send everyone home."
