“I’m so sorry, Rylan.” He just stares out ahead, over his city. Lost in thought. I give him a few moments before I reach over and squeeze his hand. “It’s not your fault,” I say, although I know nothing about it.
“But it was. The fire, the accident, her death. It was all my fault.”
I frown, taking in his words. “But… your Strength is fire.”
He shakes his head, his gaze lowering. “My main one, yes. But I didn’t have full control of my magic back then. I was cocky. Dangerously so. We were all reckless with our Strengths at that age, always taking risks, always trying to show off, and show each other up. Me and Mathis, especially, but also Caelum and even Val and…” his voice trails off. “Anyway, things got out of hand one day, and I couldn’t control it.” Instinctively, I reach out, my fingers brushing the scar on his neck, and he doesn’t pull away, just shivers, closing his eyes. “I couldn’t save her, Eira.” His voice cracks, barely above a whisper. “I was there. I should’ve protected her, should’ve stopped it all before it even started. But I was a fucking arrogant fool. And it cost my friend her life.”
My heart aches at the pain in his voice, the guilt he’s carried for so long. No wonder he’s always so intent on protecting everyone around him. “Why didn’t you have it healed? Falon told me she could erase scars.”
His eyes flicker open, and the shame in them tears at my heart. “I kept it to remind me. Of what I can never let happen again. I can never again become complacent, lose control. It’s the difference between life and death.”
The raw emotion in his voice shakes me, and I feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I don’t know what to say, so I simply sit there, my hand resting on his, the silence between us heavy with shared pain.
After a long moment, I speak. “Rylan… mistakes happen. You don’t have to keep paying for it for the rest of your life.”
His hand tightens around mine, his expression softening as he looks at me with something deeper than words. “But I do. Some things, some mistakes, they should stay with you forever. Mistakes you should never be allowed to forget, never be allowed to be forgiven for. Because the person who can grant you that forgiveness isn’t here to give it.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Rylan
The warmthof the midday sun spreads across the balcony, casting a pure, bright light over us, but it’s not enough to burn away the tension that’s been simmering between Eirabella and me. The cold ache in my chest also lingers as I think back to the events of the past and wonder how she managed to draw it out of me. I never talk about that day to anyone who wasn’t there, as if that way I can pretend it never happened. But here I am, spilling it all to a woman I met barely over six weeks ago. And instead of being embarrassed, it’s only made me want to tell her even more about me, made me want her to know me, understand me.
She shifts again beside me, her leg brushing against mine under the blanket, and every time it happens, it feels like a jolt straight to my core. Unlike when we were walking, with the sparks between our hands, I can’t pull away. I should keep mydistance, but being near her... it’s becoming a sensation too delectable to resist.
“You’re making me chatty again,” I accuse her after a few minutes of our silence, trying to break the ice, break the mood my confession has cast over us.
She breaks out into that full-face grin that never fails to warm all the way through my heart, her eyes bright with mischief, the wine obviously loosening her up in ways that make her even more dangerous to me. “Am I? Well, you should’ve known better than to give me wine, my prince. Or was that your plan all along? To ply me with liquor so that I can give up all my secrets.”
“Not a plan, but I’ll keep your wine-loosened tongue in mind, if there’s ever a next time,” I say coyly, knowing full well there will be. Because despite everything, I can’t stay away from her.
She’s a drug, and I’m afuckingaddict.
And in my mind is certainly not the only place I’m thinking her tongue should be.
Stretching out lazily on the blanket, she sighs contentedly, her cheeks flushed from the wine, her grin fading to a soft smile, wide and easy. Every little movement, every little sound, every gentle breeze of her scent stokes a craving for her inside me that refuses to wane. Her leg brushes mine again, and my cock twitches, aching to be inside her. The air between us crackles, but she seems entirely unaware—or maybe just doesn’t care.
“I think I’m a good influence on you,” she says, running her tongue over the smattering of icing sugar that the fruit tart left on her lips, and I almost combust into one of those fireballs I’m so famous for.
How can she be so oblivious to how close I am to pulling her on top of me, to have her straddle my hips, feel her weight on me, how badly I’m yearning to feel her body on mine, hertightness grinding on my hardness as my tongue traces the line of her delicious neck.
“You’re far too serious. Like, seriously serious,” she adds nonsensically, her voice already starting to slur slightly. Taking another sip from her glass, she giggles adorably, and it makes me smile despite myself.
“Excuse me, I’m a barrel of bloody laughs,” I counter, watching her, unable to take my eyes off her face, her body.
She leans back on her hands, her head tipped back slightly as she gazes up at the sky. Like she’s offering herself up as a gift to the gods. Lucky. Fucking. Gods.
“Sure, if the barrel was full of people you’d just command to laugh or else!” She giggles again at her own joke. “I bet you’re terrible at relaxing. Do you even know how to cuddle with someone? You’re probably completely inept at it. Good thing you can conjure a damn good firestorm because you’d make an awful husband. Your future wife will probably have to negotiate a set amount of snuggle time a day with you, and you’ll probably set a timer”—she’s talking so fast she’s practically tripping over her own tongue as she laughs—“And, oh! I know! You’ll have Grellor storm into your bedroom with a foghorn announcing when it’s time to stop!”
Her assessment of me catches me off guard, and I laugh—really laugh, the sound spilling out before I can stop it.
She sighs, brushing a black curl off her face. “You should laugh more often, you know. I like it. I like it so much, I could eat it up out of a bowl with a big spoon like an ice cream sundae with lots and lots of those red cherries on top.” She tilts her head, forehead furrowed in thought. “It makes me feel… what’s the word? All tingly and happy inside. And it makes you even more devilishly handsome than usual. Even more handsome than when you’re all grumpy and frowny.”
My eyebrow cocks. “Oh? You think I’m handsome, do you?”
She nods earnestly. “Yep. But… I probably shouldn’t have told you that. Your ego is big enough without getting more inflated and sinking the entire continent. Oh, well. What was I saying? Oh yes, you being terrible hubby material.” She takes another sip of wine, her lips quirking up in a teasing smile. “You make brooding a competitive sport. Always thinking. Always... what’s the word... strategising! No room for snuggles and whispering sweet nothings.”
“And what makes you such an expert on husband material?” I tease, though part of me is curious about her answer.
