Page 143 of A Song of Air
Weylyn lifted her into his arms and stood. When he turned to face his mother, Bryson buried her face into his chest, silently sobbing.
“Happy Hunt,” Weylyn said. “Cassimir took down the stag. Long may he bring luck to Unseelie.”
“Long may he bring luck to Unseelie,” everyone echoed.
His mother narrowed her eyes at him, but she echoed his words before she turned to the stag and ordered it be cut up for the feast.
As Weylyn walked away, he caught Cassimir’s gaze. His brother’s eyes were hard and unyielding, but knowing, secretive.
Weylyn looked away and marched away as swiftly as his feet could carry him. His mate cried in his arms, each sob an arrow that pierced his already aching chest wounds. He didn’t stop until they reached their tent.
Brownies were already inside, flittering around and setting out clothes and pouring scented, medicinal soaps into the steaming tub. They scrambled out of the way when Weylyn made a dismissive noise. It wasn’t until they were gone that Weylyn finally put Bryson to her feet.
Her knees shook and nearly buckled, but he held her tightly by the elbows. Once she was steady, he pried the lenses from her grip and set them aside before grabbing a warmth cloth. When he faced her again, there was a broken, vacant look in her eyes as she took him in. When he first swiped the cloth against her body, clearing away the mud, a fractured sob tore out of her.
“Weylyn—”
“Ssh,” he interrupted, giving another pass of the cloth.
“I didn’t—”
“No,” he said firmly. Then, in her mind he added,“Not here, love. Do not speak. Just let me care for you.”
Bryson took in a shuddering breath but nodded to let him know she understood. Then he began the meticulous process of cleaning the mud from her body. He took his time, making sure to get every crevice. As he did so, he took stock of her wounds. Every scrape against her precious skin, every gaping, bleeding part of her he memorized. Every whimper, every flinch, he put deep into his mind so that he would remember forever.
And he vowed he would kill whoever had done this to her.
Starting with his mother.
The wounds on her back were what gave him pause. A single circle like a spear had pierced through her flesh. It was already healing, but still angry and red and fresh.
He took a deep breath to avoid raging and when he made it back to her front, he took her hand, the one with the golden, irritated band, and led her towards the tub. Once she was inside and resting comfortably, he shucked his own clothes and climbed in with her.
Weylyn pulled his mate to his chest and rested his forehead against hers. Then, he sprung into her mind.
“What happened?”he asked.
Bryson began to sob. She clung to him, her mind open and vulnerable. Images flashed through her mind, pushed onto his. She couldn’t recount what had happened to her in words, but she gave him her memories. Bright, full of fear, angry, vicious. The fear that clung to her bones like the mud she’d been stuck in. The way the creature had pinned her to the ground. The way her trembling hand reached for the fruit. The rotten taste as she sank her teeth into it.
The memories pulled away, but the feeling they left behind still clung to him. Sticky, filled with terror.
Bryson shook, her cries and sobs terrible. “I didn’t want to, Weylyn.” She grasped him, hands sliding against his bare skin. “I swear. I’m sorry. I’m so—”
“Ssh.” Weylyn held the back of her head, burying it into his chest. Her nails scraped at his skin, and the hand that held the mark burned. “It will be alright, little mate.”
Bryson shook her head back and forth and pushed away from him. “Stop.” Her voice was hard. Even with her scarred eyes streaked with tears, she looked regal. “Weylyn, this endsnow, do you understand? Stop keeping me in the dark about what’s going on here. Your family hates you.” She took a breath. “And I have a right to know why.”
