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“But as Arthur lay on the floor, his eyes glazed, I’d believed he was dead—or close to it. And I was filled with so much pain, so much emotion. Empathy for my brother and rage towards my father for hurting us when he should have been protecting us.”
“I’m still not sure what happened exactly. From the time my father threw me to the floor... I’ve blocked it out. I remember Caspar coming in and finding us. He looked so shocked.”
“What do you think happened?” Draven asked very carefully.
“I think that must have been the first time my magic surfaced. Despite the potion. Despite my having no idea how to use it. It’s the only thing it could have been. But there were no scorch marks. Nothing was burned. I still have no idea how it happened. But he was dead.”
Draven rubbed his cheek gently against mine. “You should never have had to endure that, Morgan. Nor should Arthur. No parent should ever treat a child that way.”
“I know. I know that. But...” I searched for words. “It’s not that I feel guilt for what I did to Uther Pendragon. All of my guilt, Draven... It’s for Arthur.”
He was quiet. “It makes sense, I suppose.”
“Does it? How? Shouldn’t I hate him? Everyone else does.”
He sighed. “The bonds of blood are so strong, Morgan. They transcend our rational minds. You were children. You know what he is, but you also know what he endured. Part of you must desperately long for it to have been otherwise.”
“It could have been,” I said bitterly. “If we’d had a different father.”
“Perhaps. Or maybe Arthur would still have turned out this way. There is no way to know. But whatever happens, Morgan, you must understand something. It wasnotyour fault.”
I sobbed then. Sobbed like a child in his arms while he held me. It all flowed out. The tears I had never allowed myself to shed for the brother I had lost so long ago.
Finally, I tried to pull myself together.
But there was one thing left to say.
“I cannot lose Kaye, Draven. I just... can’t.” I sniffled and he pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at my nose.
“I swear by Aercanum itself that you will not lose him, Morgan,” Draven said quietly. The words were a vow. And I believed him.
He was Kairos Draven Venator, after all. Prince of Claws. And my mate.
I tried to smile. “Let’s talk about something else.” I had an idea. “Like those paintings on the wall over there.”
I slid off his lap.
“The paintings?” Draven croaked. He seemed reluctant to follow me.
“Yes,” I said, tilting my head consideringly. “They’re lovely, aren’t they? Such a wonderful mix of styles.”
“Amazing what the mind can conjure,” he agreed.
“But some stand out. They have a distinctive style all their own.” I eyed him. Yes, he was looking uncomfortable. I pointed to the one of me plucking the apple. “This one, for instance. It looks downright familiar. And yet I can’t quite put my finger on it.” I mimicked the posture I had been painted in, right down to my hand lifted to pluck the apple. “Can you?”
He groaned. “Fine. So you recognized yourself.”
“You painted it, didn’t you?” I demanded, delighted at his discomfort. “Admit it, Draven.”
“It is a dream rendition of a painting that is back in the palace,” he said carefully. “I confess nothing beyond that.”
“Oh, you certainly painted it,” I crowed. “Now, which of the others here did you paint? That’s the question.” I started to scan the wall, tapping my finger to my chin.
Most were landscapes in very different styles than the one with the apple tree. I ruled those out.
A charcoal sketch stood out to me. It looked like a study that had been started but then left unfinished.
“Now this one,” I started to say. Then I stopped.
