Page 83 of Burn of the Everflame

Jealousy. Confusion. Hurt.

But also a little relief, and a begrudging, almost wistful gratitude.

“You still with him?” Henri asked.

I wasn’t sure how to answer. I’m afraid I’ll die and ruin his life seemed a little intense this early in the morning. So I gave him the truest answer I could.

“I love him.”

Henri looked suspicious. “But are you happy? Does he make you laugh?”

Memories flashed through my mind: Luther’s dry, subtle humor during our weeks at the palace. The playful side he’d shown me in Sophos. Taran Junior, the goat we’d joked about raising from our orchard by the sea.

I flashed a sad smile. “He does.”

Henri stared into his mug, frowning. “I knew he had feelings for you. When he found us together in the palace that day, the way he looked at me . . . he hated me.”

“You hated him, too.”

“I thought he was using you. Thought he just wanted to be King.”

“Maybe he thought the same of you.”

He scowled. “I wanted to marry you before I ever knew about”—he gestured at my Crown, my body—“any of this. I only wanted to be King so we could help the mortals. That’s what you claimed to want, too.”

Old arguments began to rise—accusations of who fell out of love first and why, whose secrets had been the bigger betrayal, all the same blame-casting and resentment that had torn us apart.

Then my mating mark warmed, and my temper sheathed its claws. I had too many looming battles to stay trapped in this one. If I was going to fight, it would be for my people, my life, and my Prince.

“I believe you,” I said. “I do want that. And that’s what Luther wants, too.”

Henri’s frustration seemed to deflate. “I heard what he did in Fortos, helping you free the prisoners. Heard he was helping the Guardians in Arboros, too.” His nose wrinkled. “I guess it’s possible I judged him too quickly.”

I mock gasped. “Is famed Descended hater Henri Albanon admitting that some of them might be good people?”

He shot me a playful glare. “Let’s not go that far. But if you love him . . . I suppose I can give him a chance.”

“Maybe you could give them all a chance,” I prodded. “At least the ones who are willing to fight with us.”

“If I do . . . could we be friends again?” I tensed, and he rushed on. “I know it won’t ever be like it was. Lana’s gonna be my wife, and I don’t want to risk that. And I know I did some things that, maybe, you can’t forgive.” His throat worked, and when he spoke again, his voice was breaking. “I got lost, D. Really fucking lost.”

I pulled him into a fierce hug. Henri clutched to my back, his head buried in my neck, his body trembling. I felt Luther’s eyes on us and his dark emotions at our embrace, but he maintained his vigil from afar.

“I’m so sorry,” Henri whispered. “For everything.”

“So am I. I was a terrible friend. I knew you were hurting, but I was too focused on my own problems to be there for you.” I squeezed him tighter. “Can you forgive me?”

He nodded fervently. “Can you?”

“I can. I do.”

Though I held Henri close, in my heart, I was letting go—of the anger, the blame, the distrust, the regrets, all the burdens our falling out had left on my soul. And of the friendship, for what it had once been and could never be again.

But maybe, with Lana and Luther at our sides, we could find a way to make it something new.

Both of us smirked at the other’s teary eyes. “Are you sure you can be friends with a Descended Queen?” I teased.

“As long as you don’t expect me to call you Your Majesty. You’re always going to be ‘D’ to me.”