Page 35 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

Ariadne’s laugh jolted him from the dark recesses of his past. He refocused on the two walking ahead of him, their elbows bumping together every few steps. What had the General said that could be so funny?

Pain lanced through him. What he wouldn’t give to be the one she looked up at with that smile. The monstrosities he would commit for one night–just one night–where he could show her that he could be anything and everything for her. He’d tear the world apart to prove his worth.

He grit his teeth. That was the problem. His solutions always included destruction of some kind. For so many years, he’d been taught that peace required leaving ashes in his wake.

But Ariadne didn’t need any more atrocities in her life. She deserved someone who could bring together the broken pieces of her spirit and hold them in place. Azriel would never be able to do so, not just due to his status as half-fae but because of every terrible part of his history.

Ehrun’s words still rang true. “She will never love a half-breed bastard like you. I’m doing you a favor, really.”

He should have let the dhemon kill him. From the moment he realized the soul bond had snapped into place, connecting Azriel to Ariadne, he knew it would be impossible to act upon it. It was what made him put the rope around his neck. His very being would never be satisfied so long as he was kept from her, and there was no way to ever solidify the bond.

Not even that name in Lord Caldwell’s Will.

So as much as Azriel hated it, he was thankful for Loren Gard. The General obviously cared for Ariadne more than most of the greedy Caersan men who tried to dig their claws into her influential dowry. He looked at her with reverence and–much to Azriel’s disgust–desire. She meant something to him.

Though it would never compare to what she meant to Azriel.

Ariadne was the very breath in his lungs and his reason to open his eyes every night despite awakening into an agonizing existence without her. He would do it, though, for as long as she needed him to. Until the very end.

What that end was, Azriel did not know. The end of his employment with the Harlows? The end of her needing him around? The end of his life, the only peace he would ever find without her?

Another laugh from Ariadne, and he swallowed hard, watching her with pinched brows. His throat burned, but he refused to let anyone see how difficult it was for him to be there.

Then she turned to look back at him. Something changed in her face at that moment. The smile faded, and her lips parted as her eyes scanned him from head to foot. Her face softened, and she blinked a couple times as though to clear her vision. She rolled her lower lip between her teeth, biting down. A flush of red washed across her cheeks, and when Loren spoke, she didn’t look at him at first.

“Miss Harlow?” The General paused his walking and turned to her, concern on his face.

She whipped back around to him and smiled sweetly. Loren cocked his head to the side and slid a hand onto her lower back to guide her forward. In a single, graceful motion, she twisted out from under his touch.

Loren looked back at Azriel, his pale eyes darkening with loathing. In return, Azriel raised his brows and said, a little louder than necessary, “May I remind the General to keep his hands to himself?”

Passerby paused and stared for a moment before whispering behind hands or fans.

The General glared at him, baring his fangs, and for a moment, Azriel was almost content.

Chapter 8

Azriel sat at the edge of his bed when the door snapped closed, signaling Madan’s return from the Dodd Estate. He didn’t turn to look. Didn’t move at all, in fact. Didn’t see or even hear anything beyond the screaming silence echoing in his mind.

Again and again he saw her broad smile, heard her beautiful laugh, and felt his heart–his soul–shred a little more.

“Azriel…” The voice sounded so, so far away.

It wasn’t until the knife was pried from his fingers that Azriel’s mind even acknowledged Madan’s presence. His sleeves, rolled up to his elbows, exposed the perfect escape he had been too cowardly to take while alone

He’d tried once. Gods, he’d almost succeeded. Madan had found Azriel hanging from a rafter after he’d so brazenly kicked the chair out from under himself. If it hadn’t been for the sound, he doubted he’d have been found in time.

That had been a mere two months after saving Ariadne from the dhemons.

This time, Madan slipping the knife from Azriel’s hand was simple. Firm hands gripped his wrist and pried his fingers open. The weight of the weapon dropped from his palm, and he watched numbly as the blade clattered across the room.

“What happened?” Madan sat on the bed across from him.

The room slid back into focus around him. It was small and sparsely furnished, like most servants’ quarters. Their beds, no more than five feet apart, had a set of drawers against the wall between them. Beside the door sat a small table with two mismatched chairs. Nothing decorated the walls, though Azriel had seen other rooms with small portraits of old family members or loved ones hung on the plaster.

Madan tried again, “How did it go?”

This time, Azriel slowly slid his eyes to him. “I think she loves him.”

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