“So, how are we going to get out of here?” she asked, trying to hold her voice steady against a fresh wave of tears.
Cael sent a gust, the strongest Xenia had yet felt, careening into her cell and stirring her curls. “This will be ten times stronger by morning.
“I’m going to raze this fortress to the ground.”
CHAPTERTWENTY
Cassandra nursed her red wine in Tristan’s backyard, watching the ruby droplets trail down the glass.
They’d arrived home an hour ago after a long, limb-numbing, barely tolerable flight home from Vaengya that Cassandra had fortunately slept through, exhausted by the harrowing events of the past two days.
They’d both cleaned up and changed, then Tristan had prepared them a simple dinner of grilled fish and vegetables. And though her feelings about him were more confused than ever, she had to admit the male could cook. The magic he worked with a few simple, quality ingredients was even more impressive than the wind flowing through his veins.
Dinner was a quiet affair, and as soon as she’d taken her last, mouthwatering bite, she’d plucked up her glass and retired to the backyard. She needed some fresh air and a quiet moment alone with her thoughts.
She’d been out here less than five minutes before the double doors creaked open and an anxious presence loomed behind her. Iron scraped against the patio bricks as Tristan sank into the other chair, angling his wings over the back. He thunked his tumbler down a bit too forcefully and a slosh of amber liquor spilled onto the table.
“Oops,” he mumbled with a brief grin, wiping the puddle with his hand and awkwardly rubbing it against his leather-clad thigh.
Why did he seem so nervous?
And why werehisnerves making it harder for her to breathe?
He sat back and sipped at his drink. In the silence, Tristan’s story stretched between them like a living thing, coiled and poised to attack before a thoughtless gesture or anxious breath scared it back into the shadows.
Tristan had not only Turned a human Fae—or at least attempted to—but Cassandra was certain he’d taken her last name. Those were human graves in Vaengya. The Fae didn’t bury their dead; they burned them. Believed the fire would release their souls into whatever plane of existence their High Gods occupied. Better than keeping them trapped within Ethyrian soil for eternity.
It shouldn’t bother her so much. She should be happy for her friend. Happy that he’d experienced a love so powerful he’d been willing to risk everything for it.
But despite knowing it was foolish and illogical and unwarranted, she was irrationally and insanely jealous.
Especially after everything that had transpired between them in Meridon.
She didn’t know what todowith this seething envy. So she added it to the compost pile of festering emotions feeding her tortured soul and making her question every decision she’d made over the past few weeks. She’d never hated her own impulsiveness as much as she did at this moment.
She’d suspected that life outside the order would be messy. But she hadn’t anticipated it beingthismessy. Or complicated. Or foreseen how helpless she’d feel trying to deal with everything on her own.
She ached to talk to Xenia. Her friend had as little experience with the outside world as Cassandra, but she’d certainly read more about it. Might have some helpful insights from her books about what to do when the most important person in your life was in terrible danger at the same time as you were falling for someone destined to break your heart. Even if Xenia didn’t have any answers, just being in her sunny, optimistic presence always lifted Cassandra’s spirits. High Gods, she missed her friend so badly.
Tristan cleared his throat, pulling her from her ruminations. A troubled expression tainted his devastatingly beautiful face.
Wrath of Vestan, why was his vulnerability so attractive?
It made it exceedingly difficult to stay angry with him. Especially at a time like this, when he truly deserved it.
He’d kept so many massive secrets from her, not divulging his heritage or the reason for his exile.
Even as the accusations churned, her righteousness banked. She herself had told him to take his time, that it was his story to tell. She’d given him permission to wait until he was ready, and she wouldn’t renege on that promise.
Her features softened as she gazed into his golden-brown eyes, the small flecks of green at the edges of his irises illuminated by the retiring sunlight.
“What was her name?”
* * *
“Ione,”Tristan whispered, his throat closing. “Her name was Ione Saros.”
He swallowed, unsure if he’d be able get through this story. He hadn’t recounted it in over a century and remembered only the big beats and the tiniest, most insignificant details.
