Page 121 of The Beast King's Bride

“Well, how did that work out for you?”

“You’re an ass.”

He laughs, then nudges me with his elbow, too. “I’m glad you’re back, Ash.”

“So am I,” I lie. A lie and not a lie, in fact. I’m glad I found Pete, so glad he didn’t let himself die out on the street, in the cold, without me knowing anything was the matter.

But he’s the only thing I’m glad for in this world, I realize.

A small voice in the back of my mind asks, Is it enough?

Enough or not, it’s all I have right now. I send Pete off with one of the coins two towns over to haggle and bring back human silver coins with the profile of the king stamped on them. He brings a whole bag of silver and we both sit and grin at it for a long while.

Talen sent me off with that gold. Was it meant to be offensive, payment for services rendered? It’s a moot point now, I remind myself. You’re never going back to him. Whatever he felt or didn’t feel, any slight he directed or didn’t direct at you, it’s over.

That is a lot of silver, though. Those Fae coins are heavy, not like normal coins at all, more like small ingots of gold.

Why would he set me up so well if all he wanted was to slight me? If anything, he should have given me coppers, if he wanted me to feel cheap.

This whole story doesn’t make sense. Why he went from saying he loved me to kicking me out with a sneer? Did he realize I was too much trouble to keep around?

The hurt never seems to lessen. Every time I remember the last moments in the throne room with the nobles snickering at me and his cruel words in my ears, I have a lump in my throat.

Why, Talen? Why?

But no answers are forthcoming. When I remember the way he touched me, kissed me, moved inside of me, I get too hot. I miss that part of being with him, too, I miss every part of being with him, and I admit that as the months pass and I realize I’m not carrying his child, I get even sadder. A part of him. I wanted to keep a part of him, but it wasn’t meant to be.

Meanwhile, life goes on. We stock our larder, and Pete tinkers with the cobbler’s tools, making me new shoes and a belt. They aren’t half bad. He’s better than he thinks and I tell him so.

Behind the house, there is a small orchard and we harvest apples and pears. When the weather begins to warm, I plant some onions and carrots.

It’s so… domestic. Normal. Cozy. Even if the neighbors gossip about us and the weekly market is abuzz about us living together without being married—and about my miraculous return. I think it’s what stops them from pelting me with rocks for my immoral cohabitation with a man. That, and Pete’s recent loss.

And Gods, when did the winter pass? Time drags but I don’t realize as it slips through my fingers. I’m not bored—but I’m not excited, either. Life has a dull sheen to it, with bright moments when Pete and I tinker over something together or laugh over a joke.

Without discussing it, we stayed living together, keeping our separate rooms, our sibling-like rivalry and affection. I can’t imagine seeking a husband, loving someone other than Talen, despite everything. I might stay with Pete, if he doesn’t kick me out, too, if he doesn’t one day decide to find another bride.

Can you learn to live with someone even if there is no passion? Can you grow to be happy with that? Can it ever be enough after you’ve known that meeting of bodies and souls, after you’ve met your other half?

Only it wasn’t your other half, I tell myself. What you experienced was a lie. You owe it to yourself to start anew.

Then why is it so damn hard to do?

As spring rolls around, I find comfort in expanding our little vegetable patch and sitting among our few trees as the birds return. Pete has taken to tinkering in the cobbler’s workshop. He seems to be getting the hang of it, slowly, remembering his lessons with the old cobbler.

Once or twice, he talks about his late wife. Oriana was her name. She was kind, beautiful. They were going to have a family.

I’m so sad for him, I cry. I can cry for both of us. I sit in the garden and stare at the ring Talen gave me and wish I had the guts to throw it away, or sell it, and put Talen out of my mind.

“What is that ring you’re wearing?” Pete had asked me one winter day, when he found me weeping over it.

I told him. I asked him what it means when a man gives a woman a ring, and he was quiet for a long while.

“Is that his family crest?” he asked later, and when I nodded, he said, “I gave Oriana my mom’s ring. I buried her with it.”

You don’t give such a ring lightly, it seems.

Which makes me even more confused.

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