Page 170 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

“You were at the Council Chambers.” Madan set down his cup and picked up the empty glass again. “Hard to miss anything they say—they’re quite loud when they’re together.”

With a snort of wry amusement, Azriel nodded and took a sip, the liquor burning his throat. He shook his head, remembering the cackling laughter he’d overheard the times he’d chaperoned them to and from the Dodd Estate. Their loudest moments, however, were typically over the superficial gossip of the Society—not the serious events like those of the last week.

“What did they have to say about your arm?” Azriel nodded to the amputated side.

Madan smirked, the empty glass balancing precariously. “You’ve never been as pampered as I was when they saw me. I should get injured more often.”

“And how does Whelan feel about that?”

“Getting injured or getting pampered?” He winked.

“Both.”

Madan shook his head. “You know how he’d feel about either of them.”

“Have you sent word to him about what happened?” Azriel tilted his head. “I’m sure he was ready to burn Laeton to the ground when Kall got back to him.”

“I told him I’m safe.” He grimaced, and the glass dropped into his lap where he left it. “And that we have a lot to talk about.”

“You didn’t mention your arm?”

“I don’t need him coming here to coddle me.” Madan glared at the fire, his marbled eyes colder and filled with more dark memories than Azriel had ever seen in them before. “It’s too dangerous.”

And that had been the end of the conversation, with neither of their love lives resolved. If Azriel could even consider himself to have a love life. What he had was a wife too terrified and wary to look him in the eye.

Because in her own house, she didn’t have to pretend. She didn’t need to put on a front that everything was fine in her life. She could continue to mull over her past and choose her future—whatever it may be.

Azriel wouldn’t stand in her way.

He couldn’t and wouldn’t stop her if she decided to leave. He only wished she’d tell him what she was thinking. The silence weighed more than the hate.

So Azriel spent the rest of the evening avoiding Ariadne as much as she avoided him. If she planned to leave him, he needed to distance himself. Peeling back the attachments of a bond, though not impossible, would be a difficult feat. He needed to loosen it enough to get away and continue working towards a bondless life.

If it were even possible.

The dhemons he knew who had pulled away from the bond succeeded for a while. They seemed to thrive. Then they spiraled hard into a darkness they couldn’t escape.

Ehrun had been one of them, and Azriel could still recall a time when the dhemon laughed. He’d never touched a sword or even lifted a finger in anger. The Ehrun he’d been introduced to as a child, with his wife and newborn daughter, had been entirely different. Then they were murdered.

The Crowe stumbled down a similar path when Azriel’s mother died. His only saving grace had been him and Madan—his sons. They’d held together the shredded pieces of his bond by the very blood in their veins. Her blood.

Azriel had no such way to keep it intact, so his only choice remained to hope a slow separation would help. If all else failed, he’d leave the Caldwell Estate to Madan and go somewhere he couldn’t hurt anyone.

Especially Ariadne.

It had taken a week of deep thinking, soul-searching, and even praying to the gods for Ariadne to make her decision. She spoke to no one of Azriel’s true lineage after her one-on-one conversation with Madan. It would not be fair to him to reveal something he could not help to those who would ostracize him for being born.

To be born as a half-breed was not his fault, and for that alone, he should not be punished.

It was everything else—the abduction, the lies, the pain he caused—which placed the final nail in his coffin. There were some things that were unforgivable, and she had tried so, so hard to find that in her heart.

But it was not there.

So she packed up the meager items she had in the guest suite. She set her books in baskets and the clothes in the trunk she had dragged over to the room. They sat, waiting for their next destination.

Ariadne’s heart picked up its pace as she put on the wool traveling cloak, fastening it at her throat. She glanced out the window to the summer rain pattering against the glass pane like a solemn melody. She would miss the distant view of Lake Cypher.

Inhaling deeply, she pivoted on her heel and marched to the door. The sooner she confronted Azriel, the better for them both.

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