She had tucked herself against him, her head under his chin, and for one exquisite moment, everything in the world had been right. And then he’d opened his fucking mouth.
He could have apologized for what he’d said, but, day after day, he didn’t. How could he, when he still didn’t have a future he could offer her? When he might open his mouth and say something even more hideous.You didn’t plan to fuck the queen’s maid up against a tree. Gods.
Instead, he had wrapped himself in numbness and silence. He avoided her. Didn’t speak to her. Didn’t sit with her. He had kept away from her in the Temple of the Nephilim after they returned from the woods to find their friends already there. Avoided her during Val and Alanna’s wedding. Timed his visits to Reece, recovering in the infirmary after the horrendous beating he’d received, to ensure he was alone. And then ridden away with Mathos to look for Lucilla without even saying goodbye.
His time with Keely was precious to him, and he couldn’t bear to hear the final words that would end it forever. If he never gave her the chance, then she couldn’t say them. If he stayed away, he couldn’t say the wrong thing, and she couldn’t say goodbye.
And yet, it was also relentless, abject torture. The time they’d been apart had done nothing to reduce how much he wanted to be with her. If anything, the torment of not being able to touch her had made him even more aware of everything she did.
He couldn’t stop himself from looking for her, from checking she was safe. And he couldn’t shake his profound gratitude that Alanna, Val, and Keely would all be coming back after the treaty was signed. It was the only thing that gave him any relief. She had decided to stay with the Hawks—she had said so.
Alanna and Val had been clear that they would come back in the spring. And Keely would follow her friend. She wouldn’t leave her. The knowledge settled something in him. Keely would come back, and maybe they could try again.
Keely was wrong about what she’d said that day. He did want to be with her. Did want to hold her and touch her and talk to her. Every single day. He didn’t want one meaningless fuck and to part ways. Not at all. But instead of telling her that, he’d let his fears for the future, his belief that she would never truly want him back, speak for him.
He’d failed her. And the truth was, as much as he wanted to give her whatever she needed, he was still failing her. She’d become increasingly withdrawn. Her creamy skin was now permanently wan, with dark smudges under her eyes in her too-thin face. She wasn’t eating enough—he’d just seen her turn away yet another offer of food and drink. She had turned away the pastry. Gods, Keely loved pastry. And she never smiled. But the worst of it all was that she had stopped singing. The silence pressed down on him, shredding what was left of his heart.
That glowing spark of fire and defiance that had made her so vibrant was gone. And he had no idea how to get it back. He wanted what they’d had before. When she had teased him, liked him… trusted him. But he couldn’t see how that was possible. And he couldn’t bring himself to wish their time in the woods away.
If her silent misery wasn’t bad enough, the thought that he was responsible for her suffering—that his words, his actions, had somehow taken something from her—made it infinitely worse. And day by day, he hated himself a little more.
Soon she would be heading north, away from him. Away from the scant protection he could offer, his feeble attempts to make her life more comfortable, for long weeks, months even, before they returned. Who would care for her? Who would check her shoulder, or ensure she was eating? Who else would worry that she never sang?
Gods. Had his silence been an even bigger mistake than his words? The thought settled on him slowly, sinking shamefully into his heart and lodging there.
He looked at her, sitting across the room, looking so pale and quiet, and accepted the truth. Avoiding her had been a mistake. He should have done something—anything—to make things right between them.
Suddenly he was desperate to speak to her. To spend time with her before she left. To apologize and make her see that she meant so much more to him than she thought. But he had no idea where to start.
Tor cracked his knuckles, taking out his frustration on his hands until Mathos glared at him from across the room and he wrapped his hand around the back of his neck instead.
He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, wondering whether he could sneak out without being noticed. He didn’t want to lurk at the back of the room, watching Keely and feeling like an asshole. He would rather sit alone in his quarters, drinking cheap wine and feeling like an asshole. He needed to figure out what the hell he should say to her. How he could break this terrible silence between them.
“I saw that.” Mathos grinned as he walked over and offered Tor a heaped plate. “You can’t leave yet. I believe the excitement is about to start.”
“Fuck off, Mathos,” he replied tiredly, taking the plate and then putting it down on a nearby table.
“No.” Mathos stood beside him, leaning his shoulder against the wall as if he owned the place. In a way, he probably did. “It’s too much now, Tor. I’ve been watching you two staring at each other when you think the other won’t notice for weeks. You, constantly trying to check on her without her noticing. Keely, spending longer and longer alone in her room. She hardly lasted more than an hour after Lucilla’s coronation before she disappeared off by herself, probably to walk along the battlements again.”
Tor dropped his head, kneading the tight muscles in his neck with his fingers. None of this was news. “What do you want from me, Mathos?”
“I want you to tell me what happened.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “Nothing happened.”
Nothing except Keely wrapping her legs around him and pulling him closer, her mouth hot and demanding. Nothing except the feel of her soft skin, so smooth and warm under his palms. Her body pressed against his, enveloping him. Her sweet pleas almost shattering his control. Feeling as if he had seen the gods, there in that dark hollow. And then realizing that he was mortal after all, and utterly fallible.
He shook his head and repeated. “Nothing.”
Mathos frowned. “It’s not ‘nothing.’ Not for either of you. And speaking as the man who nearly fucked up his entire life by walking away from Lucilla, I think you’re making a mistake.”
Tor stared at his friend for a moment before admitting quietly, “I already made it.”
“Then fix it.”
“It’s not that easy, I—” The room around them fell silent, except for the crackle of the fire, and he stopped speaking to see what was happening.
Gods. Tristan was on one knee in the middle of the room, looking up at Nim. Tristan’s face was rough, harsh even, his entire body scaled in glittering emerald and pewter.
