Chieftain Lorcan Acwellan-D’Vaire had performed the only two permanent matebond severances in known recorded history, and Pyxlevir couldn’t argue that the men involved were happier thanks to his demonic ability. However, he hadn’t planned for such magic to be used on his own behalf.
What was the point of having a mate who didn’t want him? Pyxlevir didn’t want to spend eternity alone. And if he still wanted Gramlithyn, he needed to prove to them both that Fate hadn’t made any mistakes. Hopefully, he was up to the fucking task.
“We will need to speak to the others involved prior to making any plans,” Pyxlevir said, his words emotionless and stilted. “I do not know Dasan, and neither does any other D’Vaire. If Colby and Crispin are not willing to help, you will need to devise another plan. Are you planning on telling them the truth?”
“Yes. Dasan doesn’t know either; we can tell them together if you want. As far as the rest of the family is concerned, I think that can wait until later.”
“Odd that your best friend does not know that you have a mate,” Pyxlevir blurted before he could think better of it.
Gramlithyn stood. “The subject never came up. Do you want to call the twins, or should I?”
Unsure how much more he could handle without losing his shit, Pyxlevir rose too. Each sentence Gramlithyn spoke added another wound to Pyxlevir’s mountain of them.
“Call them,” Pyxlevir ordered. “It is your plan. Keep me updated.”
Without another word, Pyxlevir stalked out of the hotel room. Once the door was firmly shut behind him, he took off for the elevator at a dead run. The sooner he was home, the better. He needed a good cry, perhaps an hour of swearing, then he wasn’t sure what the hell would come next, but it wouldn’t be pretty.
Neither were the blistered remains of his heart and soul, but Pyxlevir supposed any fault belonged squarely in the hands of Fate. It was too bad the goddess was nowhere around. Which meant Pyxlevir had to deal with the horror of his matebond and somehow find the strength to believe the situation could be salvaged.
Because it was apparent that Gramlithyn was ready to end their relationship for good. Pyxlevir refused to accept that was the sole option.
Chapter 9
The second Pyxlevir stalked out of the room, Gramlithyn groaned, and his shoulders sagged. He stared up at the ceiling. Was it a curse or a gift that the earthy scent of carrots still clung to the air? He glanced at the flora wrapping up his arm. It’d taken many hours for the tattoo artist to trace the tiny flowers onto his flesh, but Gramlithyn hadn’t cared. He’d wanted the blooms that sprouted from unharvested carrots to remind him of the elf he’d left at eighteen.
How had Gramlithyn forgotten how beautiful Pyxlevir was in person?
The stunning elf had sat stoically across from him with his chin lifted and the sunlight caressing his high cheekbones. Gone were the zebra-colored beads of his youth. Boring silver ones that could’ve been worn by any elf dotted his braids now and shimmered vibrantly as he moved his head. His lashes somehow appeared longer and more lush around the vivid blue eyes that gave away none of his emotions.
Six years ago, Gramlithyn could tell what he was feeling with a glance. Now, Pyxlevir was a stranger. One who’d shown up in an outfit of silk—a fabric famously used by the Valzadari. The deep azure tunic and pants had gently bled into an intensefuchsia near the hems. Discreet beading in the same colors had decorated the outfit, and it suited Pyxlevir perfectly.
Focusing on Pyxlevir’s fashion choices was easier than dealing with the maelstrom of emotions left behind by their brief encounter. If Gramlithyn had secretly hoped Pyxlevir would object to setting themselves up to have their matebond demonically severed, his dreams were dashed.
With no complaints, Pyxlevir had agreed to take the next step—to convince their friends to go along with the scheme. What would Pyxlevir think if he knew the entire thing was a ruse to convince his other half that being with a zebra wasn’t the end of the world?
Gramlithyn was terrified to find out, but he had to see things through. Either Gramlithyn was right, and Fate hadn’t made a mistake, or they deserved their freedom to find someone else to love. That was if he could convince his heart and his zebra to stop adoring Pyxlevir, since the spell would demand he feel neutral about the situation.
With a groan, Gramlithyn rolled and landed face-first on the mattress. Over the past few days, he’d convinced himself that the idea he’d carefully crafted was genius. Now he was wondering how he’d survive more than a few days without falling to his knees and begging Pyxlevir for a chance.
Or how he’d hide his body’s intense reaction to Pyxlevir’s presence. Within seconds, Gramlithyn had nearly swooned at the scent of carrots and scared the poor elf off with his hardening cock. Thankfully, his visceral attraction hadn’t lasted long. It was quelled by Pyxlevir’s icy demeanor.
In their youth, Pyxlevir had smiled constantly. If anyone was in a foul mood, Pyxlevir was the one offering them a warm hug, a silly joke, or a friendly shoulder to lean on as they spilled whatever was vexing them. Happiness had radiated from hissoul. But today, Pyxlevir had looked through Gramlithyn as they talked.
And his words were formal. Gramlithyn couldn’t remember any instance in their past where Pyxlevir had spoken in such a stilted manner. His words had been English, but the cadence and lack of contractions reminded Gramlithyn of Elvish. While they were both fluent in both languages, Gramlithyn hadn’t used his father’s tongue in six years.
Maybe adult Pyxlevir preferred Elvish now or used it more often than he had in his youth. Both options could be true. Gramlithyn didn’t know shit about Pyxlevir now, which hurt. It was his own fault. He’d bolted from Vegas as if his zebra ass were on fire.
As for his beast, Gramlithyn was trying to ignore him. The sad, agitated beast was whining pitifully in Gramlithyn’s head. Thankfully, the sounds were mournful and not screeching loud, but how long would that last? Like Gramlithyn, his zebra had wanted to pounce on Pyxlevir at first sight.
That was one of the reasons Gramlithyn had kept their chat as concise as possible. Both Gramlithyn and his zebra had to learn to coexist with Pyxlevir. If their friends agreed, they had twelve months of living together to survive. Gramlithyn was counting on finding common ground with Pyxlevir.
However, he had to prepare himself for the other option. There was a chance that no matter how hard Gramlithyn worked, Pyxlevir would demand separation papers and the much more devastating demonic severance of their bond.
Rolling over so his nose was no longer squished into the bedspread, Gramlithyn once again fixed his gaze on the ceiling. The odds were against him. He’d opted to run from his feelings and ditch his best friend so he could roam aimlessly. Pyxlevir had to be pissed. Or perhaps he’d worked through his anger and no longer gave a shit.
Gramlithyn couldn’t decide which was worse. It would be foolish to dwell on it. He had to remain focused on how to help the situation, not worry about every possibility or how much additional pain he’d endure in the coming months. His current predicament was his own damn fault.
Although it was Fate that put them together, it was Gramlithyn who’d charted the path of least resistance. At eighteen, Gramlithyn had fled because he was scared. He had given little thought to the future and hadn’t put himself in Pyxlevir’s shoes. Too much time had passed for them to pick up where they’d left off.
