Page 128 of The Legacy of Ophelia
“All it took was one person to learn who she was—one thief to break in while she was unguarded, and one powerfully poisoned cup of faerie wine with no cupbearer to taste—and even my mother’s demigoddess blood couldn’t save her life. The male who did it never even looked her in the eye as he robbed her, took vials of her Godsblood from her vein, and murdered her. And I promised then I would protect those this world tried to beat and cheat the power out of.”
Thieves are dishonest.
That night, before we went to the Gates of Angeldust and retrieved the final Angel emblem, before the mountain theater and Ritalia and Echnid and everything—those were the words he’d spat at Brystin, the fae sent to break into Ophelia’s room and steal the emblems.
Thieves are dishonest.
It hadn’t only been because of the pure fact that fae cannot lie. It was a deeper wound scratched open when a male snuck into someone’s room in the dead of night. Had he seen his mother in Ophelia’s place, as I did every battle my friends ran in to?
“I’m sorry, Lancaster,” I said softly, holding his gaze. “I’m sorry you’ve been used that way, and I’m sorry you lost her.”
The ache behind my ribs stretched deeper, like I was feeling his pain, too. But for the first time since the gorgon attacked, the pounding in my chest quieted.
“I killed the male brutally,” he admitted.
I smiled softly. “Good.”
He huffed a small laugh. “I have spent centuries being angry about the cowardly way my mother was taken. And when that gorgon attacked you, all the anger pooling within me erupted.Something within meneededto slaughter her—the Hunter needed to protect you more than it did hurt you.”
Those words rang through my body like a pulse, a string plucked. That low hum pulled me toward him, leaning forward in my chair just as he did on the bed. That thing in my chest was unavoidable and insistent, needing to attend to the vulnerability in his words.
“I’m okay, Lancaster,” I assured him. “You saved me.”
Goddesses, I hated that that was true. But I couldn’t deny it. And it was that gratitude that had me ripping open my own wounds to show him he was not alone.
“I understand that pain,” I went on. “I lost my parents in the first Engrossian-Mystique War. Before Malakai signed the treaty, they died. For a battle that wasn’t theirs. It was unjust and cruel that their lives were cut short like that. But what keeps me moving forward is the reminder that every day I wake up—every day we survivors go on—we are doing so in their image, with their dreams and hopes and visions of a brighter future shining in our every step.”
“I did not know how they died,” he muttered. “I am sorry.” There were more words beneath his stare, but he held them in. Like he was still figuring out how to phrase them.
“You should rest,” I finally said after a long silence of being picked apart by those intense irises.
Lancaster’s eyes drooped over me, then around my shoulder. “Where will you sleep?”
I patted the arms of the chair, leaning back. “Right where I have been.” I hadn’t slept, but there was an odd concern in his voice that made me not want to admit that.
The fae looked at the bed he had yet to move from. “I would not mind if you wanted to sleep here.”
“Where?” I asked, hands tightening on the arms of my chair.
Lancaster gestured to the bed. “Here.”
“Where will you sleep?” I asked.
“Also here.”
My brows rose.
“This bed is large enough for two. Though I would suggest changing the sheets as I seem to have sweat with the fever.” A disgusted crease formed between his brows, and I laughed at the reminder that Lancaster had never experienced a fever before. He didn’t know the symptoms.
I did as he suggested, letting him rinse off in the attached bathing chamber as I switched out the clean linens Lislee had provided. The humans seemed to have come around on the fae since he defended them and their children.
Then, I changed into a softer, short-sleeved tunic, and we settled down side-by-side in the bed. And while it was technically large enough for two, it was swarmed by the presence of the not-immortal fae.
Our arms brushed as I shifted.
“Sorry,” I said, looking up at the ceiling in the dark.
“It is all right,” he clipped. Gone was the vulnerability in his tone. The tightness had returned.
