I have…episodes. That pit of numbness I mentioned earlier? Sometimes it overtakes me, and I just disappear for weeks at a time.
He tried not to picture who had been on the receiving end of those words. But even covering his head with his pillow and shutting out the weak light couldn’t stop visions of golden curls and emerald eyes from flooding his brain.
Not to mention the torturous memories of what had happened afterward.
Her taste lingered on his tongue, even now. He’d begun to wonder if he’d ever get that sweetness out of his mouth. Or if he’d carry it, as haunting as his lost wing, into this new, unwanted chapter of his immortality.
The things he’d told himself the morning after—that she was better off in the colonies, that she was safer there, that she’d be happier without him—had seemed true at the time.
Now, after a little over a week into this life he’d resigned himself to—one dedicated to duty, to his father, to Brachos—he could admit they were lies.
The door to his room flew open and, before Cael could brace himself, two heavily-muscled knees bracketed his hips and his pillow pressed down on his face.
“Were you always this lazy or did the Vestians teach you bad habits down there in the colonies?”
Erik’s voice was muffled and only Cael’s inability to breathe motivated him to swat his youngest brother.
Erik grabbed Cael’s wrists in one hand and pressed them against his chest, using the other to keep the pillow in place. “Come on, big brother. Fight me off! I know you’ve got it in you.”
Desperation tinged Erik’s taunting words. As if the younger male was the only individual in all of Stoneridge who could see how much Cael was suffering. And the only one brave enough to goad him into returning to himself.
A big part of Cael wanted nothing more than to just lie here and let the pillow steal his breath. But some small spark, one that even in the darkest of his episodes had kept him clinging to life, flared in his chest.
He bucked his hips and pushed Erik off, his sole wing splaying out as he sat upright. Erik untangled himself from the sheets, laughing with relief.
As if he could tell how close Cael was to letting it all go.
Cael climbed out of bed to pull on a pair of dark pants and a loose white shirt. “What do you want?”
Erik’s deep brown eyes—a gift from their mother—glinted with amusement. “Father sent me to get your lazy ass out of bed.”
Cael whipped towards his brother, nearly toppling over. Even though it’d been weeks since he’d lost his wing, he was still getting used to the lack of counterbalance. “Why? He hasn’t said a word to me since I’ve been back.”
Erik crossed his arms, surveying the mess of Cael’s room: the half-eaten plates of food, the empty bottles of wine, the sweat-soaked sheets. “He told me to tell you, using these exact words—” Erik cleared his throat, then let out a bone-chillingly accurate imitation of Arran “—your wallowing isfinished, Cael. Fucking clean yourself up and make yourself presentable for our guests.”
Cael snickered, despite himself, and the sound loosened Erik’s shoulders. “What guests?”
Erik stalked for the door, his fleshy gray wings bouncing. “I’d ask if you’ve been living under a rock for the past week, but all evidence in your room would suggest that indeed you have.”
Erik gave Cael a mocking bow as he gestured through the door.
“Your fiancée and her family arrive tomorrow.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Vasilikans were even more terrifying than Cassandra remembered.
The Imperial guards had arrived at the intake tower this morning, black wings on display above raven-head helmets, broadswords clasped within gauntleted hands.
As Cassandra made her way across the yard, she tried to avoid the attention of the female at the head of their formation.
Vicereine Lykan’s ice blond hair glowed in the early morning murk, her pale eyes raking a chilly gaze across the prisoners gathering before her. Her crimson lips twitched upward, and Cassandra fought the urge to cover wings she knew were hidden. She’d knocked back that veiling potion—a large enough dose to last several hours—as soon as she’d spied the first Vasilikan.
The prisoners gathered before the Vicereine, Cassandra flanked on one side by Reena, Ronin a brooding, tattooed wall of muscle on the other. If Cassandra weren’t being watched so carefully, she might have asked where Eamon was.
The Vicereine’s crystalline voice broke the yard’s heavy silence. “You have all been accused of crimes against your Empire. Against your Emperor. The Imperial Council has found you guilty.”
Cassandra bit back a scoff. They’d all been found guilty without any chance of defending themselves. Not that she was surprised.
