Chapter 64: Sixty Four
Valka
Past
"Malachy’s here," Father says, but unlike every other night, he doesn’t move from the threshold. Neither does he smile. "Consider accepting his proposal, Lyra. You cannot live this way forever."
I stiffen, hand dropping from the waves in my hair that tumble down my back. "He doesn’t know what I am. What we are--"
"Such is the excuse you give every time a suitor comes for your hand," he cuts in, displeasure stark in his face. "They are not all the same, the wolves. You never quite know until you learn to have trust."
"Trust is not the problem." I whirl away from the mirror. He looks exactly as he did the day I turned eighty, forty-some years ago--timeless, unchanging. "This could risk everything. And what do you think will happen when, fifty years from now, Malachy is grey and dying, and I remain as I am? And our children? What if they inherit more wolf than Lycan? Shall I watch them wither too? Or abandon them before they can notice I do not age?"
"I do not want you to spend the rest of your life hiding here with me," Father says softly. "I want you to live. To love. To see the world beyond this wilderness. I love you, Lyra, and because I do, I will not keep you hidden away." He steps forward, splinters of wood caught in his black hair, his old tunic fraying at the seams. "If you will not wed Malachy, then go to Ebonheart."
"No," I say too quickly.
Because Father doesn’t know what I’ve done.
And that I have gone to Ebonheart. Not once. Not twice. But seven times over the span of my hundred and twenty years.
And I met him every time.
Each time, he was in disguise. In noble clothing, in a merchant’s garb, in a serving boy’s garments, a fighter in a deadly brawling pit, a hooded viewer in a brothel, a man buying time in a gambling den. And each time, I kissed him. And each time, I compelled him to forget we’d ever met.
Not to protect my identity. Not to keep my secret.
For a far more selfish reason.
Because while I knew the woman trapped inside me was the reason we were drawn back to each other, I secretly...did have a little crush on Lucien Draemont. And gods help me--I hated it.
**
Present
The murmuring of a deep masculine voice stirs me awake. The chamber smells of crushed herbs and burnt linen. Someone’s tried to mask the stink of blood, but it lingers beneath everything. My head feels... fuzzy, as if wrapped in wool. Even my thoughts come slowly, dragging their feet.
A smooth hand moves slightly over my aching ribs, prodding a gentle path down the center of my stomach and lower. Then, a woman speaks in a soft, hushed tone. "She suffered significant trauma. Three cracked ribs, two deep contusions near the liver..." her voice buzzes in and out as my lashes flutter tiredly.
Last I remember, I was in the center of the cursed arena with Lucien’s crown on my brow and Lilith demanding a recourse, refusing to accept Lucien’s decision. Last I recalled, the royals were in disagreement. Last I remembered, my knees had finally given out and I crashed against Lucien, in typical maiden fashion, fainting.
Now, I recognize the chandelier on the ceiling above mine, the gold plating, the lavish decorations on the chambers. I’m in the King’s chambers.
"...to stabilize her. We’ve begun a course of tonics to strengthen the heart and restore blood volume. She’ll need weeks before her strength returns in full. There’s also some concern about her fertility, though we won’t know for certain until she has healed."
"Her fertility?" Lucien’s voice cuts through the fog like a blade. It pulls my eyes open wider, though the room tilts slightly.
The physician, a woman with curly black hair mingled with so many strands of grey, I couldn’t tell them apart has her lips pinched in a straight line. "Given the severity of the trauma, the pregnancy could not be sustained."
I sit up so fast, I nearly puke all over the sheets from the dizziness and the pain.
"The--what?" I echo, forcing both gazes to mine.
She blinks, as if just remembering I might not have known. She looks from my face to Lucien’s and back again. "Yes. You were pregnant. Conception works differently for Lycans. It happens faster, almost immediately, and the pups develop just as quickly. Judging from your state, I’d say you were only a couple of weeks along." She waits for it to sink in, before continuing. "But the damage done was...extensive. You must have felt the searing pain in your stomach at some point. That is when the removal began."
The world tips sideways and stays that way.
She says something else--about rest, about tinctures, about avoiding strenuous activity, about lingering symptoms of the pregnancy, like being on heat at different intervals over the next few months--but I don’t hear it.
We apologize. For your loss.
My fists curl around the sheets that smell purely of him.
"I expect your privacy on this matter, Eve," Lucien says after a long stretch of silence. "Leave us."
The woman bows, fingers knotted tightly together as she slips from Lucien’s chambers. Neither of us speaks until the outer door clicks shut and the quiet swells so thick I can barely breathe in it.
"How do you feel?" he asks finally.
How do I feel? My body feels hollow, as if something vital has been scooped out of me and the cavity left behind is too vast to ever fill. I stare up into Lucien’s eyes. They’re dark and unreadable. I search them still, needing to know that it would have meant something. That he would have...wanted it. From me.
Ilya’s grief coils heavy and suffocating beneath my skin. She would’ve wanted this. After everything she lost, she would have fought the world itself for another chance. Another heartbeat. Another life.
"Would it have made a difference?" I ask, bringing a shaky hand to my stomach. And I do not know if the words are mine or hers, if the vulnerability bringing tears to my eyes is mine. "If--if I--if we--"
"Valka."
The words hit like a lash--not cruel, but sharp enough to sting. His eyes are darker now, unreadable, but I can tell he’s retreating behind those walls again. I hate those walls. I hate how impenetrable they are. I cannot...cannot connect to him. I need...I need...
"You are grieving," he says, voice leveled. Not one crack. Not even an ounce of feeling. His face betrays nothing. "You need time to--"
"I don’t need time," I say, breaths rushing out, and I feel her in my mind, thinking, breathing as one. A merging of some sorts, temporarily, but just as real. "I need you."
It’s the herbs. It must be. They make everything feel too close, too raw, too much. I hear myself saying and thinking things I never would. Things I don’t even understand.
His chest rise and falls in slow breaths and I feel him pull away even further before he ever physically does, and I instantly want to take those words back. "This isn’t what we are, Valka."
I flinch.
My face feels wet. I hadn’t realized I’d begun crying. Why am I weeping? Why did I say that? Why does it hurt so much?
"Ours is a relationship born of necessity. We need each other, only as far as our bargain goes. You leave Ebonheart as soon as both our ends of the bargain is fulfilled. You do not want a future with me. You do not need me. It is the grief and the herbs speaking."
"You do not get to tell me what I do and do not feel." Something in my chest cracks at his unwaning stoicism. "Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is, in fact, the grief speaking. But I, at least, feel something. The same cannot be said for you. Or maybe you just despise me so much, you couldn’t give a single care in the world for your--"
"Be very careful what you say to me, Valka," Lucien says softly.
There is a chill in the air, menacing and heavy, though his face remains smooth as stone. My lips wobble and ugly tears begin to roll down my cheeks, my chest heaving with sobs. And hiccups.
Lucien sighs. Then leans in, cupping the back of my head gently and despite myself, despite the ache I feel, my muscles relax enough to let him settle me back against his pillows. "I’ve had an eternity to understand and dine with grief, amongst other emotions. I will not always respond in the manner you expect me to."
I sniffle. "What does that mean? That you do care?"
His eyes flick down to mine, brilliant violet depths. "Do you?"
I hesitate. "No."
We both know it’s a filthy, rotten lie. But Lucien reaches under my eyes, smoothening a tear across my cheek slowly. "Good. Do not care for me, Valka. Do not fall for me. Do not love me. Do not even like me. And don’t you dare trust me. Because I most certainly do not and will not reciprocate your feelings."
Tears well up in my eyes again. "You’re an asshole."
His mouth brushes against my forehead, and then my brow in soft, lingering kisses. "I know."
"I hate you."
"Hate me," he whispers, voice smooth as silk against my skin. "Hate me until it rots you inside out. Hate me until you dream of driving a blade through my heart. But hate only me if you must."
I choke on a sob. I cannot seem to stop sobbing. "Why?"
"If it is all you will ever feel for me, then let it be fierce. Let it be mine. Let it burn only for me." I don’t know what any of that means, but it makes my skin sizzle with heat. My lips parts when it dawns on me that he never answered any of my questions, but he whispers in a voice that sounds heavily layered in the voices of a thousand kings. "Sleep."
And I do.
Lucien.
"Much too early in the day to be drunk and pathetic, Majesty?" Trent asks dryly.
I lift my head off the cold floor with all the dignity a king sprawled face-down on marble can muster. "Valka hates me."
He stares down at me. "You don’t say."
"She said it," I mumble, pressing my cheek back to the ground. "Out loud. With conviction."
"Tragic."
"And I think she meant it this time," I add mournfully, voice muffled against the floor.
Trent sighs and steps over my leg as if this were a common occurrence. "Gods forbid a woman despise the man who’s spent weeks actively encouraging it."
"I wasn’t encouraging it," I grumble. "I was... strategically cultivating emotional distance."
"Ah. And how’s that working out for you?"
I groan. "She hates me."