Page 52 of Between Despair and Hope

Last night, we had been keeping each other company, nestled close together on the chaise. He’d been reading me a story from his mother’s homeland, translating as he went. It was when he paused in his reading I had thought he was going to kiss me—and I had thought I was going to let him—but at the last second, he dropped his book and then ran out of the room. I had fallen asleep before he returned, kicking myself. I didn’t know what I was upset with myself for—being angry I wanted to kiss him or being mad I didn’t get to. Waking in the middle of the night, I had been glad to see him asleep in his bed, but I didn’t understand why. He was my enemy.

Though, I supposed it didn’t mean he couldn’t be my friend too.

Cyran was a reluctant companion I’d made out of desperation and self-preservation. Why wouldn’t I try to befriend my captor and make him feel bad about what he’d done? Perhaps make him treat me better? Although, to be fair, Cyran had treated me kindly the entire month I’d been with him. Hell, he had even bought me an easel and paints and encouraged me to create. And I did. I’d set it up on the balcony overlooking the pond behind his estate and painted a heron who liked to land in the shallows. I liked to watch as it would dip its long beak down to grasp whatever it could find. I had painted a sunset one day and told him of my plans to paint a sunrise the following morning. And when I had gone outside after a sleepless night, dawn not having broken yet, he had been waiting with scones and warm tea to share while he kept me company. I’d grown accustomed to him, and that must have been the reason I slipped into that familiarity and convinced myself a kiss was something acceptable. Thank the gods he dropped his book.

It was the memory of his eyes darting to my mouth before his tongue swept over his own lips, my gaze trapped as if in a snare, that I shook out of my mind. He gave me a sleepy grin as the sunlight moved over us. I couldn’t help but smile back at him. The thought of his kiss filled me with trepidation and desire, nothing like what happened when Theo kissed me on the road to Mira. I wasn’t sure what to think about having had my first kiss with my best friend and less than a month later, I was contemplating my second with someone else. Normally, I’d have talked to Mama about it, but now that I knew of her secrets, I had to wonder if I wanted her input. She didn’t seem to have the greatest judgment.

I loved Theo, really I did. He was my first friend, the first hand I held which didn’t belong to my parents, the first person who understood me. Every memory of my childhood revolved around him. He was ever-present in my life, and I’d always imagined I’d end up married to him, living in the small home just a short distance from my parents. I imagined a future with Theo, but it was never a very exciting one. I wanted to explore Vesta—drink wine in Olistos, eat the seafood at Nara’s Cove, explore the artist’s quarter of Astana. But any time I mentioned it, he never seemed too keen. Based on some of our conversations, I supposed he worried I’d meet a conduit or something and leave him behind.

Theo was my best friend; being with him made sense. But when he kissed me, I didn’t feel any sort of spark. Not like what I’d been made to expect from my books. When he pulled back, his face illuminated by the fire Papa had built, his deep brown eyes were hopeful and bright, and I smiled at him, trying to hide my disappointment. Everything I should have felt as I watched Theo lean in to kiss me was what I felt when I thought about kissing Cyran. And what did that say about me?

I wanted to kiss my captor. His lips looked so soft, and when he smiled, his dimples distracted me from the fact he was no good for me. Brother to a man who wanted to take me as an unwilling bride, child of a man known for his cruelty. And what his father had supposedly done to my aunt?

Another thing I was mad at Mama for not telling me.

I berated myself over thoughts of Cy’s stupid, perfect mouth, even as I smiled at the prince from across the room. His mop of hair was unruly, sticking up at countless different angles, and his hazel eyes looked green in this light. Ismene’s room was decorated similarly to Cy’s, a deep green paisley pattern on the walls with other earth tones surrounding. But his felt different. Eclectic, the room should have been outrageous, but it worked well—rich, clay browns and mustard seed yellow met in the pillows on the chaise. Deep-red and pine-green clashed in the fabrics of the room. Even the blanket he’d pulled over me didn’t match the rest of the colors—a deep blue reminding me of the sea. I was drawn out of my thoughts when I heard loud thumps in the hall, and Cy’s eyes shot to his door in a panic as a man burst into the room. I realized instantly who stood in front of us.

“Well, how unusual it is to find you here. Is your bedroom not across the hall?” The sneer on his handsome face made me ill. Declan’s eyes moved down my body, and I nearly gagged aloud as I tugged my shirt down where it had ridden up. He looked to be about the same age as Papa—no—Faxon. I glared at him as he continued his frank assessment of me. If anyone else had ever let their eyes have such unabashed freedom as they roamed over me, I would have smacked them. That is, if Mama didn’t first. But not Declan, no. I hadn’t met him yet, and I’d been hoping to avoid it. His blond hair was littered with wayward strands of silver. With eyes the same color as his brother, I didn’t want to fear him, but they held no warmth. They held none of the mischief but plenty of animosity.

“Did you touch my bride, brother? I wish you would have asked first.” Declan’s eyes never left me, and as I glanced at Cyran, he watched his brother warily. He sat up and spoke, surprising me. For some reason, I hadn’t thought he’d say anything. It felt almost like I’d lived this moment before, in a dream or something like it. But not once had Cyran ever spoken up.

“I didn’t touch her, and you should leave her be. She just woke up.”

“Oh no, I won’t be leaving her at all today. She comes with me. Now,” he said, voice leaving no room for opposition.

I started from my spot on the chaise, ready to run, but Declan was too fast. He snagged me around the waist, picking me up easily. I flailed, kicking at him, trying to knee him in the groin as I had done to his brother. It was odd—part of me imagined this going a different way. I’d seen it happening differently—seen him pick me up and crush me to his body with my back to his chest. But that wasn’t what happened, somehow hoisting me up, so I saw Cy’s horrified face over his shoulder.

Cyran scrambled out of bed, his long, strong limbs flexing as he threw himself to the ground at his brother’s back.

“Declan, please. Let her stay here. Let them think you have her but leave her with me. Please, brother.” Cy looked at me helplessly as he reached out and grasped Declan’s belt, trying to haul him backwards.

I shrieked and started clawing and digging at Declan’s shoulders when he sent a shadow down Cy’s throat, making him collapse to the ground, holding his neck.

“Leave him alone! You’re hurting him!” I slapped Declan’s back, gouged my nails into his neck, as he stoically carried me out of the room. He was going to kill the best thing to have ever come out of Darkhold. His own brother, the witty and kind shining star who still gleamed despite that horrifying influence.

“YOU’RE HURTING HIM. LET HIM GO,” I shouted directly in Declan’s ear as he walked over the threshold. As he shut the door, I saw Cyran collapse, chest heaving. Declan had listened, letting him breathe.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

Everything went black.

When I woke, my head didn’t ache. I thought surely I’d been knocked out, maybe caused by a blow from the wicked prince who had taken me, but the lack of injury told me that wasn’t the case. I was confused. It was as if time had jumped, and I’d missed so much. I was sitting with my hands bound by obsidian manacles in my lap, my legs tied together at the ankles. Bouncing along in a carriage, I wondered where we were headed.

“Ah, the princess awakens.” I looked up from my lap when the gruff voice spoke, and an old man stared at me. He was old, much older than Old Man McLean, and looked almost just as frail. “It almost hurts to look at you.”

“Well, it definitely hurts to look at your ugly face,” I retorted. He laughed, and his eyes lit up. Hazel eyes. I froze when I realized who sat across from me.

The king who killed my aunt.

Who sired the evil man who wanted to claim me as his, who wanted to conquer Vesta. The king who sired at least two other children who were the exact opposite of Declan. The witty and scathing Ismene, who would have been my best friend in another life and was desperately loyal to Cy.

Cyran.

I couldn’t think about him. He wasn’t here, and after what Declan did to him, I worried he was really hurt. I only hoped he’d be alright and tell Mama what happened.

I lifted my chin, meeting the gaze of the man across from me. I wracked my mind, trying to remember facts about Folterra Mama had taught me, and I struggled. She spoke little of Folterran royalty, and now I knew why. I couldn’t remember for sure, but I thought King Dryul was born before the Great War. That would have made him over five or six hundred years old. He had the same eyes as his children, and I wondered if all of his children had them. Did he look into them as he killed the ones who dared speak up against him? Cyran had told me that between his father and older brother, they’d killed every other sibling he had, most before he was even born. He and Ismene were the only two left, and he worried they’d both meet the same fate as the others.

“What a cruel twist of fate—that hair. You look so much like your aunt, and it was unfair she looked so much like—” He started coughing, unable to finish what he was rambling about. When he recovered, he asked, “Did you sleep well? You’re going to have a busy day.”

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