Page 33 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
“Rest,” I tell her, my voice steady and sure.
Before departing, I allow myself one last look at her—thin and wounded, yet undeniably alive. Whatever storms gather on our horizon, I’ll face them gladly knowing she still breathes.
The night air cools my face as I step outside to keep vigil. Above, the stars wheel in their ancient patterns, unmoved by all our mortal concerns. Yet to me, everything has changed.
RHEA
I stareat the tent flap long after Vaylen leaves, the echo of his words vibrating through my hollow chest.
I love you.
Three words I didn’t expect, didn’t prepare for. Shouldn’t he hate me by now? I’m a murderess. A Weaver. A liar. I’ve violated every sacred trust.
Yet he loves me.
The tent suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. I press my palms against my eyes until colors burst behind my lids. A year for him, mere days for me. This doesn’t make sense. The man who kissed me last at Fort Ashmire was cautious, reserved—a man bound by duty who bent rules for desire. This Vaylen, who speaks of love with such conviction, feels like a stranger.
What version of me does he even love? The one who lied to his face? The phantom he chased for a year? Or some idealized memory that never existed?
I roll to my side, ignoring the protest of sore muscles. Something sits broken inside me, something vital that should respond to his declaration. Instead, I feel nothing but confusion and a strange, angry jealousy—jealousy of the Rhealyn he remembers, the woman who disappeared a year ago. She might have known how to answer him.
“Damn you,” I whisper to the empty tent. “You couldn’t just want me. You had to go and love me.”
I can barely think of who I was yesterday, let alone who I’ll be tomorrow. How can I promise anything when I feel there are so many missing pieces?
Then, underneath this bewilderment, something else stirs awake, and it’s dread. Because despite it all, Vaylen loves me, and that frightens me more than anything because our love simply cannot be.
13
Rhea
Morning light slips through the tent flap, golden and persistent. I push myself upright and exit the tent, muscles protesting less than yesterday. Progress.
“You’re staying put.” Vaylen’s voice brooks no argument as he strides past, tent pegs in hand.
I scowl. “I’m not an invalid.”
“You’re exhausted and malnourished.” Phoebe appears with a bundle and canteen. “Here. Eat.”
They bustle around breaking camp while I sit uselessly, nibbling dry bread. The food tastes like ash in my mouth, but my body craves it desperately.
—So. He loves you.
I nearly choke.—Did you forget you’re supposed to stay out of my…
—Romantic dealings? Mating business?he suggests. Laughter ripples through him.It was hardly spying. Your thoughts practically screamed across our bond, and your heart thumped so loudly I thought you might faint.
—My heart didn’t thump.I tear the bread with my teeth, shooting a glare toward where he lounges by the treeline.
—It did. Like a hatchling’s first flight.His amusement washes over me.Will you tell him you feel the same?
—I don’t know what I feel.I watch Vaylen’s capable hands collapse the tent, remembering those same hands on my skin last night.And, again, it’s none of your business.
—Everything about you is my business, little one.His voice softens. Zephyros’s mental presence shifts, growing contemplative.—Perhaps... I was wrong about Stormsong.
I nearly drop the canteen.—What?
—Do not make me repeat it.A rumble vibrates across our bond.He searched for you when others gave up. He kept your secrets when revealing them would have benefited him. And he looks at you the way a dragon looks at the sky.
