Page 30 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
For a man carved from stern granite and order, he holds me now like chaos itself is his salvation. And I let him.
12
Vaylen
Her mouth scorches mine, and for the first time in a year, the world rights itself. All the long nights I spent convinced she was bone beneath the mountain, all the miserable days I carried duty like a shield to keep from breaking, washed away the instant she pressed her lips to mine. It is as it was before, the same fire, the same reckless surrender. Not once in those endless months did I fully permit myself the weakness of imagining a reencounter, yet here she is, alive, burning against me.
I tighten my arms around her, unwilling to yield even an inch. If I let go, I’m afraid the mountain might swallow her again. Her body trembles under my hold, thinner, weaker than before, but the force in that kiss promises her heart hasn’t changed. Oh, the relief!
“Rhealyn,” I breathe her name against her lips. My voice isn’t steady, and I don’t give a damn.
Her eyes lift to mine, wide, full of the heat I know—Goddess, that heat—still coils there.
“Whatever that year stole, it didn’t take this,” I murmur, pressing my forehead to hers.
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away. Not this time.
I let the silence stretch, my chest shuddering with the pressure breaking loose inside me. I don’t need her to speak. Her kiss said more than words.
For a year, I thought her lost. Now, her heartbeat thrums unyielding against mine. I thought grief made a hollow man of me. Instead, she returns, and I understand. Nothing filled that emptiness because nothing could.
She’s still mine. Even if memory has failed her, even if the kingdom rises against her. She’s still mine.
Her hands linger on my chest, then she pulls back just enough for her voice to slip through.
“I lied to Phoebe.”
Her head lowers, that black, hair falling between us like a curtain. Her shame hangs thick in the air.
“I know,” I answer, quiet but certain. “She told me what you said.”
Rhealyn lifts her gaze, tiny green flecks of fire searching mine. I know what she’s hunting for: condemnation, judgement, the nail to seal her coffin. I don’t give in. Her eyes aren’t filled with defiance now, not the stubborn blaze I remember, but something wearier. Something more dangerous. Doubt.
Her lips tighten a moment, then she releases a breath. “After my mother, lying became easier than truth. A habit, like breathing.” The faintest tremor catches in her throat. “But perhaps I should’ve waited before wrapping Phoebe in my web. After all, the lie may not serve your plans. You already carry my confession. I killed the bastard, and I would do it again.”
A moment in time flashesbefore my eyes… her voice cracking on the confession just as the mountain tore itself open.
“Your lies did… hurt me,” I say. “I won’t deny it, but I understand why you avoided telling me the truth. You trusted no one with the full weight of your past.” I reach, brushing at the hair that shields her. “Not even me.”
I let the silence sit heavy between us, then force the words out. “I do hope there are no more lies between us.”
My voice comes steadier than I feel. This place still seems to pulse with the darkness that swallowed her, and I want none of it. I want her to be truthful with me, to know that she can. Because I must wonder why she's back now, and the question circles my mind like a raptor over a carcass. For months, they held her captive. Yet now she returns, thin and worn, like discarded parchment. Did she outlive her usefulness to them? Was she merely a tool, now broken and cast aside? But what purpose could she have served? Does being a Weaver have anything to do with it? The pragmatist in me wonders if the real trouble has only just begun.
My voice comes steadier than I feel. This place still seems to pulse with the darkness that swallowed her, and I want none of it. I want her to be truthful with me, to know that she can trust me.
She shakes her head, hair falling across her face again. “You know everything there is to know.”
Her tone doesn’t waver, yet I search her eyes like looking for gaps in storm clouds. I fear secrets live in her, coiled and sharp, stitched into her very blood, so I need her word, plain and spoken.
I hold her gaze. She knows what I ask without me saying it aloud. Not confessions of the past, not the sins she already laid bare, but the missing year she claims has been carved cleanfrom her memory. Is she withholding something as she withheld everything else before?
“I swear,” her voice comes with the raw edge of oath, “I don’t remember what happened to me. I opened my eyes, and the world had turned a full year without me in it. There’s nothing between.”
The oath burns in her voice. Zephyros rumbles outside the tent, that deep rolling sound that judges truth as much as steel does. I nod, though unease remains for some reason. Still, can I fault her if she can’t speak what she doesn’t know?
“Then give me this,” I answer. “From this breath forward, no more lies. Whatever the truth, whatever the poison, you’ll tell me. Promise me, Rhealyn.”
Her expression tightens. She doesn’t look away. “I promise.”
