The carefully constructed dam in my chest breaks open, and all my pain and grief and anguish rush out in an unstoppabletide. Sobs rack my body, but Zevayr is the anchor in my storm, holding me close to his chest until they subside. Ever so gently, he wipes away my tears, and Tides damn me, I let him.
“My mother was a nonwielder, too,” he says so softly, the words are almost lost to the night. “Not my birth mother. My father would never risk a nonwielder child. Faramir’s birth mother was a powerful earthwielder from a noble family. Mine was a stormwielder—I’ve never met her. Don’t even know her name. It’s common practice in Arbinj for noble families to treat their daughters like broodmares—trade powerful heirs for wealth and respect.”
I stifle a gasp. It’s barbaric. In Tundrayn, wielding is valued, but daughters aren’tsoldfor their abilities.
Zevayr continues. “But my mother—Tairna—the woman who raised me, she was a nonwielder. She tended to my scrapes and cuts. Held me after nightmares. She sawme, not the stormwielder with unlimited potential that everyone else did.” He swallows, his throat bobbing with the motion. “And then one day, she was just gone. I was maybe fifteen? My father says she returned to her home in Volca, but I knew he was lying. I could never get him to admit otherwise, and I had no proof. I suspect he had her killed. Probably didn’t want her influencing me.”
My heart aches for the boy he once was and the man he’s become, even as rage thrashes in my belly—rage for his father who snuffs out lives as if they’re nothing.
Zevayr’s mother.
And my own.
“I’m so sorry, Zevayr,” I whisper, palm splayed over his heart.
“It’s all right,” he murmurs, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “Your necklace. Did it belong to your mother?”
“Yes.” I clasp the teardrop pendant with reverent fingers. “It’s all I have left of her.”
“It’s beautiful.” He reaches between us, his fingers tracing the pendant, brushing against the dip between my collarbones. “It suits you.”
We fall asleep, cradled in each other’s arms.
Chapter Fifteen
Iwakealonethenextmorning. A cold wave of disappointment rushes through me—I thought he might’ve stayed. I don’t know why I expected things to be different between us after last night.
What could possibly be different?
He’d still be the son of my mother’s murderer.
And I’d still be betrothed to his brother.
It’s easier this way. It’sbetterthis way.
Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I’ll eventually believe it.
I flop onto my back right as Zevayr emerges through the trees.
“Rise and shine, Mayah.” He’s shaved his face, his jaw and neck smooth. The sight sends a rush of heat coiling through me. I suck my lower lip into my mouth. What would his smooth skin feel like against my cheek? My neck? My—
Tides, what is wrong with me? My face flushes, and I roll onto my stomach before he sees the damning redness.
“I’m still tired,” I say, hiding my face in the blanket. It’s not a lie—Iamtired. And my legs ache. I’ll use my powers to soothe them after breakfast.
Zevayr walks over, his steps halting beside my head. Awareness ripples through my body, leaving me trembling, yet I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze.
“Ten more minutes, baby,” he rumbles. I flush harder, burrowing my face deeper into the blanket. “Then we go.”
“Don’t call me baby.”
It’s late afternoon when it happens.
One minute, we’re walking through the trees, and in the next, Zevayr has me pinned against a thick trunk, large hand clamped over my mouth. The air rushes from my lungs. Tides, the man is pure muscle, and every hard inch of him is melded against me. Warmth floods my body, heating my cheeks and scorching my veins before pooling in my core. My chest heaves against his, and I almost whimper at the delicious friction.
Except Zevayr isn’t looking at me.
I frown—or I try to, with his hand pressed to my lips—but his focus is on the surrounding trees.
