Page 81 of Between Imminent Fates
“I still do.”
Something broke behind Nero’s gaze. With a choked sound, he left the room. Alone with Key, Jax sank to the bed beside her, nearly shaking with the need to hold her. His thumb gently traced over her cheekbone. No matter what it took, he’d help her recover. No other outcome was acceptable.
Darkness crested over the horizon before someone finally breeched the room’s sanctuary. Slowly, the door opened, a creak in the hinges making Jax’s wolf bare his teeth in silent warning.
It didn’t dissuade the woman from entering.
“I’m not here to hurt her, Jax. Her vitals need checked.”
Attempting to contain his territorial wolf, Jax simply nodded. Shaking his head to rid himself of the urge to stand over Key protectively, he sighed. His attention never left Zia.
The female Raeth flipped on a light next to Key, the soft lighting brightening the space instantly. Showing that she trusted Jax, Zia’s attention changed from him to the monitors, and she made quick work of noting the instrument’s read outs on a notebook on the side table.
“What has Key told you about the immortal societies?”
The question made him frown. “When we were together, she covered every immortal race and went through their nuances. Ruling parties, abilities, social customs. It was fascinating to me, and she seemed to enjoy speaking about it.”
“And did she speak to you about the concept of mates?”
“Only briefly.”
“A mated pair is linked by a psychic bond,” she began, her voice low. “It’s unbreakable. It exists as a connection far deeper than marriage: it forms the lifeblood of a relationship. Our mates are the other half of our soul. My mate, Jeremiah, is my everything. Before I met him, I didn’t know a connection could be so important, but it is.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Zia looked at him sadly. “Because we think that you and Key might be mates.”
Chapter Four
Derikles
Lace. Polar Bear. PureLight. Oxford White.
Nothing captured the brilliance of what’d burned through the mercenaries that night. Oils, acrylics, chalks: no medium could accurately portray what he’d seen.
Regardless, he would attempt it. As a historian, Derikles knew it had to be documented, whether he wanted to remember it or not. While he’d been temporarily compromised with the shifting psychic web, he’d counted on Ava’s recollection of the event to aid him.
No one else wanted to recount their version of that night. It was too fresh, and the wounds still stung. The she-wolf was his only option.
Though he hadn’t known it at the time, it was the last time Derikles would see his sovereign in his right mind. In the time since, Isaiah had remained sleeping.
Life stood still.
None of their people had made any moves to leave the clan. The shift in the psychic web that connected them had settled, leaving Derikles with the full duties and status of a sovereign. After further exploration, he discovered what Isaiah had done. The man had somehow woven a new web of connections on top of the original net, binding their minds together in a way that overlayed the old clan links with new.
Derikles should’ve known. It’d been what he’d experienced firsthand in the days prior to battle. He’d known something had shifted but hadn’t dug too deeply.
Could he have saved Isaiah from this fate if he had? Key’s plan had been set long before, but his mind still rebelled at the idea that the reality in which Isaak continuously asked when his daddy would wake was the best possible one. Rukia’s patience with her small son was saintlike, but Derikles knew her heart was shredded by grief.
The painted canvas before him was wet to the touch, the colors blending seamlessly below his brush. Eclipsing all else, the brilliant white that illuminated Nina and Isaiah’s forms was both violent and hollow. It echoed what he’d felt in the bleak days that followed.
His first responsibility as a sovereign had been to explain to every member of their clan what had happened. He had been met with every stage of grief. Denial, anger, depression: Derikles experienced them all. As he was still learning to control the influx of emotion coming through the psychic web, the influx battered against him and whittled away at his coping mechanisms.
By the time he’d spoken with all the clan members who’d needed it that afternoon, he’d been running dangerously low. Jaeda, sensing his building distress, had shadowed him home and healed the migraine that followed. Neither of them had said much, but the healer had been there for him when he needed it. Derikles would never forget it.
The smell of paint brought him back to the present. Frowning at the canvas, he realized he’d inadvertently let it start drying while his mind wandered.
Scowling, he tossed the semi-firm brush into the grey water and tapped it against the edges to loosen the thickening paint. Tomorrow, then.
