Why couldn’t he make up his mind? Why couldn’t he be grateful for the gift she’d given him? He was so determined to blame her, so blind to the world around him, that he convinced himself this wasn’t the life for him. And maybe it still wasn’t, maybe he was meant for more. Something greater than the grim of Brackroth. Something more wondrous than the starscape of Aeramere. If he accepted his fae form, if he welcomed it, then there was a chance he could still forge his own fate.
Yet despite all he wanted, Kjeld couldn’t imagine a world without Caelian in it.
He could ignore the nagging whisper of doubt. The one telling him that the only reason he felt anything for her at all was because she’d used her magic on him.
This was a war he fought with himself time and again. Made worse by one tiny admission, one sliver of raw honesty that pierced him like a needling thorn.
Caelian was in love with him.
Which meant she never wished for him out of spite. But out of love.
Pushing open the door, he planned to explain his confusion and beg her to forgive his aggressive actions and words against her. But when he stepped into the bedroom, Caelian was sound asleep in the bed, her face more serene than he’d ever witnessed before.
He also saw the towel discarded on the floor.
Holding back a groan of disappointment and something else altogether, Kjeld stoked the fire in the hearth once more, then dropped into one of the chairs near the blanketed nest of baby dragon eggs.
Forcing himself to rest, Kjeld begged for a dreamless sleep. But the moment he closed his eyes, he was swimming in a sea of starlight, and Caelian was there. Beckoning him like a siren luring his wayward heart to its doom.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
For months, a heaviness had always settled upon Caelian’s chest whenever she woke. Like she was being crushed beneath the weight of a boulder and couldn’t catch her breath. Her body was always too heavy. Her eyes were swollen, the skin beneath them marred from exhaustion. And her temples were usually throbbing, a dull, pulsing ache that never quite went away.
But this morning, everything had been lifted.
Her lungs expanded fully, filling with air. There was no drumming headache, no puffiness around her eyes. Likely because she hadn’t cried herself to sleep. Her bones didn’t feel weary, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, despair didn’t hold her in its icy grip. In fact, she almost felt…normal.
Save for her heart and the gaping hole left behind from her lack of magic.
Tiny ribbons of grayish light slipped between the drapes framing the only window in the room. She could only assume it was the early hour of dawn, though it was difficult to tell in a land perpetually cloaked in gloom. Easing herself up from the bed and propping her hands behind her, she glanced about the room. Dying embers burned in the hearth, their waning glowcasting the nest of dragon eggs in amber light. And sprawled in one of the high-back chairs was Kjeld with his eyes closed, arms folded across his chest, and legs kicked out before him.
Even in sleep he looked disgruntled, a tiny line marring his brow, like he didn’t trust the world of dreams.
Caelian crept from the bed, unabashedly naked, and sifted through the pile of clothing Queen Viktoria had left for her.
There wasn’t much in the way of appropriate traveling clothes. Heavy silks and leathers, rough lace, and smothering satin were hardly ideal. But she would have to make do.
Caelian opted for the least irritating material—a plum satin skirt dripping with gold beads, a cream-colored blouse with open, flowing sleeves, and a black corset that thankfully hooked up the front as opposed to one with ribbons down the back. She grabbed a pair of heels because the boots were covered in mud, then crept across the floorboards toward the bathing suite. Her plan had been to freshen up and do her best not to disturb Kjeld, but his rumbling, sleepy voice caught her off guard.
“You needn’t tiptoe around me.”
She spun around to face him, biting back the habitual apology on the tip of her tongue.
“I heard the shift in your heartbeat the moment you woke.” Kjeld shrugged, then stretched, the chair creaking beneath his weight as he unfolded his massive frame, reaching his large arms above his head. “Fae senses and all that.”
His summer blue eyes, heavy with sleep, flicked to her.
Despite her best efforts to remain unaffected by him, her stomach fluttered.
“Yes. Well.” She jerked her head toward the bathing suite. “I’m just going to…”
Caelian didn’t bother finishing her sentence and slipped inside the adjoining room. She went through the motions of brushing her teeth and washing her face but didn’t bother withher hair. It was still in a messy braid from the night before and she wore it well. She fiddled with a few of the flyaways, attempting to tame them into place, but she was stalling. Her words to Kjeld last night had been strong. She’d spoken from her heart, from a place inside her she barely recognized, and though it made her ache, she knew it had been necessary.
It was the first step in her recovery from making the tragic mistake of loving a male who did not love her in return.
Caelian assumed she had wasted enough time in the bathing suite, but when she opened the door and stepped into the bedroom, she drew up short, her gaze devouring the magnificence of Kjeld in all his glory.
He was pulling up a new pair of pants, giving her a full view of his sculpted buttocks. He was shirtless, and her gaze tracked all the lines, the expanse of his broad shoulders, and the bulge of his impressive biceps. The muscles of his back rippled with every movement, and when he fastened the last button, he turned around to face her. She swore he was carved from granite, shaped by the hands of a god. Or a goddess, most likely. The rune tattoos along his neck blended with other unrecognizable objects and swirls, crawling all over his left shoulder and down the length of his arm, stopping just above his elbow. His stomach was chiseled, defined to perfection, and there was a slight dusting of hair across his chest and navel, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants.
