War Storm
Page 85
“How long has it been?” she murmurs again, still not looking away from the page.
I lean back in my chair a little and huff at the ornate ceiling. The electric chandelier above me is dark, unlit. It sparked out about an hour ago, when Mare decided to furiously pace the room. Her moods have a trembling effect.
“Twenty minutes since you last asked,” I reply. “I told you, Maven’s taking his time with a response. He wants to make us sweat.”
“But it won’t be much longer,” she says, unmoving. “He doesn’t have that kind of restraint. Not with us. He won’t be able to resist the chance of meeting us face-to-face.”
“Especially you,” I growl.
“And you,” she replies with equal fervor. “His mother poisoned him toward us both. Made the obsession he carries now.” Annoyed, she sighs. “The meeting will be pointless. A waste.”
I blink slowly. Her knowledge of my brother and how he thinks unsettles me. Mostly because I know what a high price she paid for it. And, if I’m being honest, because I know it’s rooted in emotions I don’t want to trace. But who am to judge what she feels? I still love Maven too, or at least I love the person I thought my brother was.
What a mess, both of us.
My knee cracks as I draw back my leg, an echoing snap. Wincing, I massage the joint, letting my hands warm to a soothing temperature. The heat sinks in, relaxing the muscles beneath.
Mare finally looks up, smirking as she tosses her hair back. “You sound like a creaky door.”
I hiss out a pained laugh. “Feel like one.”
“See a healer in the morning.” Despite the playful twist of her lips, I hear her concern all the same. Her eyes narrow, looking darker in the dim light. “Or send for Sara. She’ll come now if you want. I don’t think she or Julian will sleep until we get an answer.”
I shake my head and heave myself out of the chair. “I’ll bother them tomorrow,” I say, taking even steps toward the bed. Every foot closer seems to tighten my muscles with a different kind of ache.
She tracks me like a cat as I ease down next to her, lying back on my elbows. An ocean breeze rolls in at the window, billowing the golden curtains with an invisible hand. We both shudder. Slowly, I take the letter from her hand, put it to the side without breaking our stare.
I dread these quiet moments, and I think she does too. The silence, the empty waiting, makes it impossible to ignore exactly what we’re doing. Or not doing, rather.
No change has been made on either side, in her heart or in mine. No choice reversed. But every passing second makes my decision more difficult as I’m reminded of what I’m going to lose when the time comes. What I lost for so many weeks. Not just her love, but her voice. Her sharpness. The push and pull of a person who has no regard for my blood or my crown. Someone who sees me, and no one else in my place.
Someone who calls me Cal, and not Tiberias.
Mare puts a hand to my cheek, splaying her fingers behind my ear. She is more tentative than before, more clinical. Like a healer examining a wound. I lean into the touch a little, chasing the cooling feel of her skin.
“Are you going to tell me this is the last time?” I ask, looking up at her.
Her expression melts a bit, as if wiped clean. But her eyes don’t waver. “Again?”
I nod against her hand.
“This is the last time,” she says flatly.
I feel a hum deep in my chest. My fire roars in response, begging to burn free. “Are you lying?”
“Again?”
Her lips twitch as I run a hand the length of her leg, from ankle to hip. The fingers on my face trace a gentle path as I bob my head, feeling my own blood heat.
Mare’s response is quiet, barely more than a gasp. “I hope so.”
She stops me before I can say anything else.
Her kiss devours.
No choices made.
Again.
Mare is dressed, perched precariously in the open window, when someone knocks on the bedroom door, waking me. I half expect her to duck out and disappear into the night air, but instead she pulls back inside. Her face flushes and she tosses me my robe. I get a faceful of silk.
“Staying put?” I ask, low enough so the person in the adjoining chamber won’t hear. “You don’t have to.”
She just glares at me. “What’s the point? Everyone will know soon enough.”
Know what, exactly? I want to ask, but I hold my tongue. Stretching, I stand from the bed and pull the robe tight, knotting it at my waist. She watches as I move, eyes trailing. “What?” I whisper, sporting a half grin.
Instead her lips press into a thin line. “You had some scars removed.”
I can only shrug. It’s been weeks since I had a healer erase the older scars across my back and ribs, wiping away the raised edges of white, knotted flesh. Wounds unbecoming of a king. I’m a bit flattered she remembered enough to know. “Some things don’t have to be held on to.”
Her eyes narrow. “And some things do, Cal.”
I can only nod in silent agreement, unwilling to follow her over the precipice of that particular conversation. It won’t lead us anywhere productive.
Mare settles against my desk, leaning a bit, squaring herself to the door. Her countenance changes, her eyes sharpening as the rest of her seems to harden into a different person. A bit of Mareena, the Silver she pretended to be. A bit of the lightning girl, all sparks and merciless fury. With herself in between, the girl I’m still figuring out. She ducks her chin, nodding at me.
As I open the door, I can just hear her suck in a fortifying breath.
“Julian,” I say, moving aside to let my uncle into the room.
He takes a step forward, already talking, a faded sweater tossed over his nightclothes. The page in his hand has very little writing on it. “We’ve received Maven’s reply,” he says. He falters only a little at the sight of Mare, doing his best not to let her break his momentum. He clears his throat a little and forces a casual smile. “Good evening, Mare.”
“Good morning would be more appropriate, Julian,” she says, dipping her head in greeting. Unwilling to give anything more or anything less. But our appearance says enough. Her with still-disheveled hair, and me in nothing but a robe. Julian reads us as easily as he does his books. At least he has the good sense not to comment, or even smirk.
I prod him farther into the room. “What did Maven say?”
“As we suspected,” he replies, recovering, “he agreed. Dawn.”
Already I curse my decision to meet so early. I’d much rather do this on a full night’s rest. But it’s best to get it over with as soon as possible.
“Where?” Mare’s voice is ragged.
Julian looks between us. “They’ve chosen Province Island. Not exactly neutral, but most of the islanders have gone, fleeing the war.”
I fold my arms across my chest and try to picture the island in question. It comes to me quickly. Province is the northernmost point of land in the Bahrn Islands, sprinkled in a hook off the coast. It’s a little like Tuck, the Scarlet Guard base. Home to little more than disappearing dunes and sea grass. “It’s Rhambos territory. And small enough. If anything, this is in our favor.”
At the desk, Mare scoffs. She surveys Julian and me like children. “Unless House Rhambos decides to betray you.”
“I’d be inclined to agree, if his family didn’t hang in the balance. Or his own life. Lord Rhambos won’t risk either,” I tell her. “Province Island will do.”
I lean back in my chair a little and huff at the ornate ceiling. The electric chandelier above me is dark, unlit. It sparked out about an hour ago, when Mare decided to furiously pace the room. Her moods have a trembling effect.
“Twenty minutes since you last asked,” I reply. “I told you, Maven’s taking his time with a response. He wants to make us sweat.”
“But it won’t be much longer,” she says, unmoving. “He doesn’t have that kind of restraint. Not with us. He won’t be able to resist the chance of meeting us face-to-face.”
“Especially you,” I growl.
“And you,” she replies with equal fervor. “His mother poisoned him toward us both. Made the obsession he carries now.” Annoyed, she sighs. “The meeting will be pointless. A waste.”
I blink slowly. Her knowledge of my brother and how he thinks unsettles me. Mostly because I know what a high price she paid for it. And, if I’m being honest, because I know it’s rooted in emotions I don’t want to trace. But who am to judge what she feels? I still love Maven too, or at least I love the person I thought my brother was.
What a mess, both of us.
My knee cracks as I draw back my leg, an echoing snap. Wincing, I massage the joint, letting my hands warm to a soothing temperature. The heat sinks in, relaxing the muscles beneath.
Mare finally looks up, smirking as she tosses her hair back. “You sound like a creaky door.”
I hiss out a pained laugh. “Feel like one.”
“See a healer in the morning.” Despite the playful twist of her lips, I hear her concern all the same. Her eyes narrow, looking darker in the dim light. “Or send for Sara. She’ll come now if you want. I don’t think she or Julian will sleep until we get an answer.”
I shake my head and heave myself out of the chair. “I’ll bother them tomorrow,” I say, taking even steps toward the bed. Every foot closer seems to tighten my muscles with a different kind of ache.
She tracks me like a cat as I ease down next to her, lying back on my elbows. An ocean breeze rolls in at the window, billowing the golden curtains with an invisible hand. We both shudder. Slowly, I take the letter from her hand, put it to the side without breaking our stare.
I dread these quiet moments, and I think she does too. The silence, the empty waiting, makes it impossible to ignore exactly what we’re doing. Or not doing, rather.
No change has been made on either side, in her heart or in mine. No choice reversed. But every passing second makes my decision more difficult as I’m reminded of what I’m going to lose when the time comes. What I lost for so many weeks. Not just her love, but her voice. Her sharpness. The push and pull of a person who has no regard for my blood or my crown. Someone who sees me, and no one else in my place.
Someone who calls me Cal, and not Tiberias.
Mare puts a hand to my cheek, splaying her fingers behind my ear. She is more tentative than before, more clinical. Like a healer examining a wound. I lean into the touch a little, chasing the cooling feel of her skin.
“Are you going to tell me this is the last time?” I ask, looking up at her.
Her expression melts a bit, as if wiped clean. But her eyes don’t waver. “Again?”
I nod against her hand.
“This is the last time,” she says flatly.
I feel a hum deep in my chest. My fire roars in response, begging to burn free. “Are you lying?”
“Again?”
Her lips twitch as I run a hand the length of her leg, from ankle to hip. The fingers on my face trace a gentle path as I bob my head, feeling my own blood heat.
Mare’s response is quiet, barely more than a gasp. “I hope so.”
She stops me before I can say anything else.
Her kiss devours.
No choices made.
Again.
Mare is dressed, perched precariously in the open window, when someone knocks on the bedroom door, waking me. I half expect her to duck out and disappear into the night air, but instead she pulls back inside. Her face flushes and she tosses me my robe. I get a faceful of silk.
“Staying put?” I ask, low enough so the person in the adjoining chamber won’t hear. “You don’t have to.”
She just glares at me. “What’s the point? Everyone will know soon enough.”
Know what, exactly? I want to ask, but I hold my tongue. Stretching, I stand from the bed and pull the robe tight, knotting it at my waist. She watches as I move, eyes trailing. “What?” I whisper, sporting a half grin.
Instead her lips press into a thin line. “You had some scars removed.”
I can only shrug. It’s been weeks since I had a healer erase the older scars across my back and ribs, wiping away the raised edges of white, knotted flesh. Wounds unbecoming of a king. I’m a bit flattered she remembered enough to know. “Some things don’t have to be held on to.”
Her eyes narrow. “And some things do, Cal.”
I can only nod in silent agreement, unwilling to follow her over the precipice of that particular conversation. It won’t lead us anywhere productive.
Mare settles against my desk, leaning a bit, squaring herself to the door. Her countenance changes, her eyes sharpening as the rest of her seems to harden into a different person. A bit of Mareena, the Silver she pretended to be. A bit of the lightning girl, all sparks and merciless fury. With herself in between, the girl I’m still figuring out. She ducks her chin, nodding at me.
As I open the door, I can just hear her suck in a fortifying breath.
“Julian,” I say, moving aside to let my uncle into the room.
He takes a step forward, already talking, a faded sweater tossed over his nightclothes. The page in his hand has very little writing on it. “We’ve received Maven’s reply,” he says. He falters only a little at the sight of Mare, doing his best not to let her break his momentum. He clears his throat a little and forces a casual smile. “Good evening, Mare.”
“Good morning would be more appropriate, Julian,” she says, dipping her head in greeting. Unwilling to give anything more or anything less. But our appearance says enough. Her with still-disheveled hair, and me in nothing but a robe. Julian reads us as easily as he does his books. At least he has the good sense not to comment, or even smirk.
I prod him farther into the room. “What did Maven say?”
“As we suspected,” he replies, recovering, “he agreed. Dawn.”
Already I curse my decision to meet so early. I’d much rather do this on a full night’s rest. But it’s best to get it over with as soon as possible.
“Where?” Mare’s voice is ragged.
Julian looks between us. “They’ve chosen Province Island. Not exactly neutral, but most of the islanders have gone, fleeing the war.”
I fold my arms across my chest and try to picture the island in question. It comes to me quickly. Province is the northernmost point of land in the Bahrn Islands, sprinkled in a hook off the coast. It’s a little like Tuck, the Scarlet Guard base. Home to little more than disappearing dunes and sea grass. “It’s Rhambos territory. And small enough. If anything, this is in our favor.”
At the desk, Mare scoffs. She surveys Julian and me like children. “Unless House Rhambos decides to betray you.”
“I’d be inclined to agree, if his family didn’t hang in the balance. Or his own life. Lord Rhambos won’t risk either,” I tell her. “Province Island will do.”
