In the stars, I see my brother’s eyes.
In the black between it all, I see the inky death that poured from my skin, the charred bodies I left strewn across the ashy stamp of desolation, the Vruk that prowled through, crunching back the evidence.
I see the black vine woven through my shoulder and the little crystal bloom I severed.
Killed.
I stuff my skirt into my mouth andscream—releasing it all in one horrific howl that still leaves me splitting at the seams. I do it again, and again, andagainuntil I’m breathless and heaving.
Releasing the material, my face crumbles, and a fierce, silent sob breaks free, cramping my insides and making me think I’ll never breathe again. I squeeze the chisel. Squeeze it so hard a sharp, merciless pain cuts through my palm …
Cool hands slide beneath my knees and around my back, and I don’t flinch—like part of my shredded soul knew he’d be here, even though he shouldn’t be.
He should be withhispeople. Helpinghispeople. Not getting muddied in problems that aremineto fix.
I’m lifted from the tree, pulled close to his chest by his flexing might, my limbs tucked amongst his devastating embrace as he sits beside the trunk. Catching my trembling hands, he pries my fingers from the chisel, one by one, whipping it away when I finally relent.
He takes my hands, bunches them up, and presses them close to his heart—thudding along so much faster than I remember. “Breathe,” he growls, nuzzling the word into my neck, nose dragging up as he draws deep and plants the next word against the shell of my ear. “Now.”
My lungs knock into action, drawing a heaving breath that’s allhim.A safety shell for me to fall apart within that I certainly don’t deserve.
He shouldn’t be here.
My sobs become rough, tangible things—ugly and twisted and hoarse. But he holds me as I empty myself, his hands wrapping me tighter with every sob until we’re bound so tight there’s only space for my lungs to inflate. He turns to mortar around me, the stirring wind melding our scents into an intoxicating elixir that tames my rioting soul.
My cries lose strength, all my energy bleeding free; those bloody, gory visions dissolving from my fraught mind until there’s nothing left—just this coil of sizzling death tucked deep inside my chest.
Still, he holds me as though he’s afraid that by letting go, I’ll shatter again.
I didn’t deserve to be put back together in the first place. Not after everything I’ve done.
I wish you’d let me die that day.
The burden of those words sits heavy in my heart, reaching up my throat with clawed hands that threaten to rip my mouth wide so they can spill.
A violent noise rattles up his throat—raw and primal. Then he’s pushing to his feet, moving toward the moonlit path with a ground-covering gait.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Home.”
My breath flees.
If he takes me ...
War.
More death.
No ships.
Home …
I allow myself to sip on the pour of relief I feel from that one, tiny word, tipping my head to nuzzle deep into his chest—thinking of honey buns and planting days and my roses in full bloom.
I hate that it fills me. That it makes me want to knot back up and cry again and pour all my weaknesses against him.
Drawing another great gulp of his winter-bourne scent, I rally my strength and shove, twisting out of his hold, thudding to the ground in a crash of limbs that knocks the air from my lungs. Breathless, I roll across the grass and scramble back.
