Page 120 of She Who Holds My Wrath

The honesty hangs heavy in the air between us.

Aran exhales slowly, some of the fight leaving him with it. “She would’ve hated this.”

“Hated what?”

“Us being so distant. So broken,” he says quietly, gesturing between us. “When we’re all that’s left of her.”

I nod. “Then we stop.”

He looks at me reluctantly for a moment, almost as if he’s deciding his next move. Resolve settles over his features before he stands and moves over to me. The Void purrs at his closeness. Snap his neck, it whispers, almost seductively. I push it away as much as I can, inhaling slowly through my nose to ground myself.

Aran reaches out and pulls me into a fierce embrace, his body softly shaking as he quietly sobs against my shoulder. “I missed you, you know? Watching you die was the hardest thing I had ever been through.”

I grip him back tightly, patting him on the back to try and offer him some comfort. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

He pulls back, shaking his head at me. “Just don’t fucking do it again. I had to be strong for Daisy, because she needed me. But I don’t think I could handle it if I lost Velentha and you.”

“Thank you,” I say seriously. “For being there for her despite your own hurt. For being there when I couldn’t. I don’t think she would have survived without you.”

And I do genuinely mean that more than I can put into words. I know first-hand how self-destructive Daisy can be when she is in pain. I had to pull her back from the edge of death with my own hands. I’m glad Aran didn’t have to do the same.

Tears shine in his emerald eyes as he offers me a tight-lipped smile. He quickly straightens himself, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve before acting like nothing happened. Typical. He sits back in the chair, then pushes the grimoire towards me.

“Sit,” he mutters. “If you’re going to be here, you might as well be useful and not just a brooding asshole.”

I raise a brow, a hint of a smirk tugging at my lips.

“What?” he says, sniffing. “You’re not my king anymore. I can call you an asshole if I want to.” He shrugs.

Laughter bubbles out of me, foreign and strange as I take a seat beside him. It’s not forgiveness from him, I know that. But it’s a start. And despite the war raging inside of me, for the first time since I returned from death, I don’t feel completely alone.

Chapter 40

DAISY

Watching him sat with Aran, both of them working together on the grimoire, has a warmth blooming in my chest.

It’s quiet and fragile, like even breathing could shatter the harmony. But it’s there, something like hope, in its most dangerous form.

It hurt at first, when he just abruptly stood up and left. The ache had been brutal, settling deep in my heart. I knew I was pushing him past his comforts, past the careful walls he’d built around himself since coming back. I knew that. And yet, I couldn’t help myself.

I had missed him. Gods, I had missed him so much. But I hadn’t realised how much my body missed him until I was pressed up against him again. How much I had longed the weight of him, the heat of his skin, the familiar strength of his body beneath mine. The way my entire being had recognised him before my mind could catch up. Pure need had taken over the moment I felt him harden beneath me. No amount of logic, no voice of reason or caution, could have pulled me back from that edge.

I know we had already come together when he first returned, but that had been something else entirely. Raw adrenaline. Shock. Relief so intense it bordered on madness. I needed him then like air after drowning. This was different. This was me wanting him when the chaos had quieted. When my mind was clear enough to feel the ache of everything we’d lost. When I was no longer running on grief and disbelief, but on hunger and love. On the devastating truth that even after death, after distance, after all the ways we had changed—my body still knew exactly where it belonged.

When I followed him, it wasn’t to chase my own wounded feelings, it was to make sure he was okay. To make sure I hadn’t pushed him into something darker, something irreversible. The thought of being the reason he spiralled—of driving him further into isolation, into self-destruction—made my stomach twist painfully. I would never forgive myself for that. Not ever.

But now… watching him with Aran. The way they speak quietly. The way their shoulders ease just a fraction. And when Aran pulls him into an embrace—when Korithax doesn’t recoil, but instead wraps his arms around him in return—I feel my throat tighten. I can’t stop the smile spreading across my face as tears spill down my cheeks.

They’re both carrying so much. So much loss, so much grief, layered and tangled together in ways that will never have neat endings. They need someone. They need each other. I know Aran had always been like a brother to Korithax, long before titles and thrones and wars complicated everything. I had feared that Velentha’s sacrifice might have shattered something between them beyond repair.

The thought of her sends a sharp pang of guilt through my chest. Part of the reason she brought him back was for me. And even though I know her choice was her own, even though I know she believed in it with everything she was… I hate that I was even a small part of the reason Aran is hurting. He had become someone I truly cared for. I loved him as a brother, and seeing him broken because of choices tied to me, feels like a weight I’ll never fully set down.

I watch them for a brief second longer, committing the image to memory, before turning to leave. My cloak swishes softly behind me as I walk back through the corridor, the sound barely audible against the stone. Beneath it, I’m still wearing my silk nightgown, the thin, dark fabric clings softly to my skin, caressing my thighs as I move. It should be warm enough. It’ll been June soon. The air outside the castle has been thick with warmth for a while, heavy with the promise of a sweltering summer. And yet, the castle is always so godsdamned cold. The chill seeps into my bones no matter the season, a lingering reminder that Hell was never built for comfort. I wrap my arms around myself as I walk, more out of habit than anything else, the cloak doing little to keep the cold at bay.

I still haven’t returned to our joint room. I don’t know why, exactly. I guess part of me feels like going back there would mean going backwards. It was ours before everything changed so drastically. Before death and rebirth and war tore through our lives and left nothing untouched.

Our current chambers are different. Not much smaller, but they’re quieter. They’re where I changed as a person. Where I learned how to stand alone. Where I stopped waiting to be saved and started becoming something stronger. It’s where I became a queen.