Once Cael was sure his father was out of earshot, he scrambled over to his discarded helmet and ripped it apart with his bare hands.
Cael’s heaving, angry breaths mingled with the swift wind that scattered the black shreds across the meadow.
He never saw Byron again after that day.
And he—
* * *
Cael shudderedout of his dream at the very intimate and lately unfamiliar feeling of a finger stroking his wing.
A rush of hot blood flooded his groin before a small voice whispered, “Are you awake?”
He jerked his wings, shaking off her touch.
“I…I’m so sorry about what I said earlier, Cael. It was cruel and untrue. I was…” She paused, calming her quivering voice. “I was upset that you didn’t want us to stick together. And I lashed out at you. It was uncalled for.”
His wings drooped slightly, but he remained silent.
“Can you please… I…I can’t sleep… my nightmare… it’s too quiet.”
Curiosity piqued, he lowered a wing. The small crack in his defenses encouraged her to continue.
“I can only fall asleep when someone’s breathing next to me. Your wings are blocking the sound.”
He softened at her confession. He tucked in his wings and turned towards her, almost wishing he hadn’t when he beheld her anguish.
Bloody Stygios, she looked exhausted. Purple half-moons lurked beneath her eyes, and he berated himself for causing her such discomfort when she’d need every ounce of energy to survive her task tomorrow.
But despite this realization, despite recognizing he was a selfish monster in the thrall of his own brittle ego, he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. Not directly, at least.
“What nightmares?” he asked.
“Nightmare,” she whispered, head bowed. “The same one that’s haunted me since I was ten. When I was stolen from my parents in Primarvia and forced into the order.”
Rage smoldered beneath his skin at the shame lacing her words. As if, as a ten-year-old child, it had beenherfault she’d been taken.
He’d never asked whether she’d joined the order willingly. If he were being honest, he’d never spared a thought for the mortal women who did Letha’s bidding. Where they’d come from, what their lives were like before they’d become Shrouded Sisters. They were cogs in the Empire’s grinding machinations—useful, disposable, replaceable.
He hadn’t thought it possible to feel more disgusted with himself but he was wrong.
“You can wipethatfucking look right off your pretty face,” she said and his heart leapt at the return of her sass. “I don’t need your pity.”
His laugh caught in his throat and he bit his lip to keep from smiling. “But you do need mybreathing?” She’d told him an uncomfortable truth, exposed a bit of herself. The least he could do was risk the same. “I don’t pity you, Blondie. You amaze me. You’re always so…effortlessly positive.”
She snorted, a fleeting glimpse of deep sorrow darkening her face. “That’s the thing no one ever realizes. It’snoteffortless. It’s a battle. Every High Gods-damned day. All you have to do is dare to see the world the way you want to.”
He didn’t know why he suddenly felt like crying, like breaking apart into a million tiny pieces and scattering away on the wind.
She made the most complicated things sound so simple.
Whatever world she saw through those kinetic green eyes, a soft world devoid of his father’s hard cruelty, he desperately wanted to experience it.
He wasn’t ready to admit that to her yet. He wasn’t even sure he was ready to admit it to himself.
But he kept his wings tucked in. Laid down on the cool stone floor as Xenia settled herself onto the straw mattress next to him—close, but not touching.
Though sleep never reclaimed him, he controlled his breathing throughout the night, imitating the sounds as best he could.
