The Golden Son shakes his head, vehement, nearly disgusted. “Then that is not love. There cannot be one without the other.”
I hold his gaze, letting the weight of his words settle.
A slow exhale slips from my lips.
“Love and trust are not the same,” I say, my voice quieter now. “They should be. In a perfect world, maybe they are. But not for me and not for Daed.”
“Then that is not love. That is surrender,” he snaps.
I shake my head. “No. It’s survival.”
He says nothing, but I see it in the rigid line of his shoulders. His refusal to accept it.
“Daed is Fae,” I continue. “And I knew what that meant before I ever let him touch me. He lies when it suits him. He withholds when it’s to his advantage. His nature is not kindness, nor is it cruelty, because that is what Fae truly are. The gray between the black and white world we humans live in. And yet, I know with absolute certainty, if I asked him to fall on a blade, he would. If my life meant his death, he would not hesitate.”
The Golden Son scoffs, sharp and disbelieving. “That is your standard for love?”
“No,” I say simply. “That is my standard for him.”
His head tilts slightly, but he says nothing, waiting.
“What Daed and I have, it isn’t built on trust the way you understand it. It’s built on something else. On knowing exactly what the other is capable of. On knowing how far the other will go, and where the line is drawn. You think trust is blind faith.” I shake my head again. “But love can exist in spite of mistrust. In spite of doubt. It can still be real, even when it’s complicated, even when it’s dangerous.”
He studies me, his mouth pressing into a thin line.
“If you do not trust him,” he says at last, “then what keeps you by his side?”
“Because he never pretends to be anything other than what he is and in return, I never have to pretend either. There is no illusion between us, no lies to fall into and be broken by. What we have is something deeper than trust.”
A muscle feathers in his jaw. “And what is that?”
I lift my chin. “Certainty. The certainty that no matter how this world tries to tear us apart, we will never be separated.”
Still, the Golden Son remains unmoved, his expression carved from stone.
“Love does not need to be so complicated.”
I glare at him, frustration curling in my chest, perhaps because in my heart I know he is right, though I would rather die than admit such a thing.
“What would you know?” I spit bitterly.
I move to turn away, to put my back to him, but the scrape of his chair against the stone floor stops me cold.
“Of what?” he snaps. “Of love? Of trust? Of certainty? Is that what you're asking?”
He pounds a fist against his chest, the sound reverberating through the room. “Do you think this lump of blood and muscle behind my ribs does not beat? That it does not feel? Do you think you and that fucking Fae are the only two creatures in this world who have ever cared so fiercely for another?”
His jaw clenches, his throat bobs with a hard swallow. “Well? Do you?”
I've seen this man’s rage before. Cold, ruthless, soaked in blood. I’ve seen the hatred in his eyes just before his boot slammed into my face at the Battle of the Grove. But this… this is something else entirely. This fury is raw, primal, clawing its way out from somewhere deeper. From that lump of muscle behind his ribs that he grips through his shirt like he’s ready to rip it out with his bare hands.
I don’t know what to say, don’t know what he expects me to say. But when I don’t answer, he moves.
I barely have time to gasp before he crosses the space between us, climbing onto the bed, dragging himself toward me where I sit pressed against the headboard.
“I feel,” he snaps, his breath ragged. “More than you know. More than you could imagine.”
His hands go to his collar, gripping the fabric of his shirt. With a harsh grunt, he rips it open, the material giving way to reveal the smooth planes of his chest, the powerful lines of muscle beneath, and the raw, unforgiving ripples of seared skin that scar his left side.
