It was low and wet, vibrating out from my crushed heart and tapering off into whimpers.
Through my softer sounds, a bellow rang out far in the distance. A foreign pang tightened my chest—almost like I could feel their hurt, like theirpain was my pain.
For some reason, the thought that I wasn’t completely alone in my grief, that someone out there was hurting as much as I, made me feel a little less lonely on this cold, dreary night.
The next few days,my nerves were a chaotic mess. I needed to apologize to Ronen and make sure he was okay, despite Alexei’s reassurance. But neither he nor Rune showed up—for anything.
Instead, it was just Alexei and Oliver at every run and training. Nothing felt the same anymore.
Lucifer never used his powers on me, saying my mother needed his extra energy, which I confirmed with my own eyes when I saw her skinnier and paler than usual. I tried to dream-walk to her afterward, but it never worked. I asked Cato again, but he refused to speak of it and luscelered away to wherever he hid.
Then there was Oliver. My heart was in pieces from Aspen, and I was scared to tell him. He’d been right. Aspen had been lying to me the whole time. But how did I admit that to my best friend? After spending night and day trying to strengthen myself and find a way to Aspen—choosing him over my mom—only to ignore my gut and discover I was just a pawnagain.How did I get those shameful words out? Worse, how did I tell him a part of me couldn’t stop thinking about Aspen?
I couldn’t. So I withdrew as much as possible and put on a show that I was okay. If only I were.
At the end of the week, after training, I strode up to the dais where Alexei stood. I’d finally had enough. I didn’t think their absence would hurt this much, at least not Ronen’s. But each day thatpassed, I found myself scanning the arena for his golden gaze, analyzing every shadow like a hopeless fool.
“Where are they? Is he okay?”
Alexei finished writing the rankings on his parchment, then gave me a small smile. “He just needs time, beautiful.”
“It’s been a week. Can you at least tell me where he is? So I can apologize—or help, or something?”
Alexei grabbed my shoulder. “An apology won’t fix anything because this isn’t about you. Ronen needs time to think and heal. Give him that.”
I didn’t completely believe him. I knew I’d struck some chord within Ronen, one Alexei refused to enlighten me on, but that didn’t mean it still wasn’t my fault. I had infiltrated Ronen’s mind. I’d made him live out that scene. The pain that twisted his features and bled through his voice gutted me, and I needed to see for myself that he was okay. I cared about him—more than I ever thought I would.
Over the next few days, I badgered Alexei with the same questions, only to receive the same result.
To distract myself, Oliver and I read every night, searching for a way out of Hell. Sometimes I found myself picking up a book on the Tenebrous Kingdom, feeling a strange urgency in my blood. I’d think about Aspen, ease the gnawing need for him in my stomach, then slam the book shut.
At one point, I searched the library for books on relationships or guardian bonds, trying to comprehend my twisted feelings. It was like something inside me still wanted him, still desired to save him. But why?
How could I possibly still care about him?
This shame and want couldn’t be love, could it?
None of the books told me one way or another. I’d never been in love, but I knew I’d been falling for him.
But maybe that wasn’t what this was.
Perhaps it was the overwhelming guilt that came with remembering Miriam’s words, asking me to save her son.
Or maybe it was the bond we shared, the one I couldn’t just cut away, no matter how much I wanted to.
After two weeks,Ronen and Rune were still gone, and I coped like I had every previous night. I went to the library hoping to see him. Not sure why. It was a pointless hope. Ronen wouldn’t be sitting in his chair reading. He never was. Yet I still came at this time, just to see—and to have some of Dorus’s tea and chocolates.
Before I opened the doors, I paused in front of them. Their colorful pieces shifted from the symbol they had been displaying daily—a symbol I still couldn’t decipher—to a new image: Michael’s dagger in Ronen’s hands.
My stomach churned as I remembered every instance that blade had drawn my blood. At four years old, it had nearly killed me. At five, six, seven, eight, and nine, it marked my birthday “gifts.” At nineteen, Michael tortured me with it. But I didn’t think the doors were showing me the dagger to just reminisce. There had to be a purpose, some kind of significance.
Thinking, something I had forgotten came rushing back. Her words—the female from my nightmares, the one who invaded my mind in Elora—trickled into my memory:
“Ifyou ever want to save Aspen, steal the bastard’s knife.”
Part of me wanted to save him as badly as I wanted to breathe. But another part ached with self-hatred at the thought.
“What is wrong with me?” I whispered, opening the library doors.
