I don’t want to.
“Just kill me already.”
I hear the fragile whimper in my voice as it cracks through my center. It just might be the most brittle I’ve ever allowed anyone to see me. My face is slick, but I have no idea when the tears started to fall. They’ve been buried so deep for so long they feel foreign against my cheeks. The taste of salt grows more bitter on my tongue the deeper my embarrassment and disappointment clenches my heart.
I didn’t mean for those words to leave my mouth. I swore that thought would never cross my mind again. But there are dark days when it won’t leave. There always have been. Like the clouds themselves cast a shadow upon me, and in their darkness, I know nothing but doubt, fear, and complete hopelessness.
Hearing my pathetic cry, the prince finally halts. His broad shoulders become a tight board of muscle.
Lethargy consumes me, crumbling my strength until I feel like nothing more than a pitiful puddle. I can hardly stand. My shoulders hunch, my knees buckling as the prince turns ever so slowly on the crimson runner to face me.
His cold gaze reaches mine, chilling the tears streaming down my face.
I want to wipe them away. Now that the initial moment of weakness has passed, now that I’ve regained some of my common sense, I don’t want him—let alone anyone—to see me like this. So raw. So vulnerable.
Buthesees me.
With eyes that seem to be capable of seeing everything, Prince Malachi watches me with a sort of empathetic familiarity that makes me forget momentarily that we’re on opposite sides.
I feel his grief like a thousand swords to my heart. He’s lost people he’s loved before. I’m not sure who, but I can see the scar it dug into his heart. Perhaps like me, it was his own mother—after all, there was only one throne behind us, and I’ve never once heard any mention of Tor’s queen.
In this moment, we’re more alike than we are different. My despair greets his grief like two long-lost friends, and suddenly the shame I felt, the rawness that had wrapped itself around my heart like a rope of serrated blades, loosens. It falls away, leaving behind wounds that are still there, no doubt, fresh and dripping with blood. They’ll leave new scars that’ll color every choice I make from here forward, for the rest of my life. But at least the pressure is fading. My lungs don’t have to strain so much for every breath I try taking. The fog that had filled the dark forest of my mind is starting to fade, allowing not quite sunlight to filter in, but something a little brighter than what had been there just moments before.
People are resilient when they want to be. And I want to be. I am a survivor. Always will be, even if I have to remind myself every so often when I’m veering down a dark path.
My life may be dire. The world may be dark and seem completely hopeless. But I want to live for as long as I am able.
I will fight for that right.
Almost as soon as our eyes meet, our souls speaking to one another in a way that I’ve never spoken to anyone before, Malachi turns back around.
“You don’t want death,” he says so softly that I almost don’t hear him. “You want release. Freedom.” His voice is restrained, like he’s gripping onto the reins of bucking bulls and he’s trying to keep them contained. It would be a fool’s errand for anyone without the aptitude and strength, and he appears to have plenty of both. “So, fight for it. Don’t…don’t let the monsters win.”
Without another word, he tugs my arm, this time with less urgency and something close to—dare I say—sincerity, as he guides me back to the dungeons.
15
LIKE FATHER, UNLIKE SON
Not soon after I've locked Charlotte back into her cell do I feel her absence.
The way she'd looked at me when we were in the throne room has left a lingering ache somewhere deep in my soul. I've never seen that look on anyone else before. That despair. That sense of utter helplessness to the life that you want but for some reason can't seem to attain. Even the humans I’ve fed upon have never shared such a glimpse of their misery with me. Not a single one has ever begged me for death.
What does it say about Charlotte and what she's endured that she was the first?
Despite never having seen someone look so miserable and lost and broken, I recognized it all the same. Because I’ve been there. I’ve felt that way myself, on more occasions than I’d like to admit.
Hiding behind the tall, sharp edges of my cape, I leave her inside her cell and go to the one beside it. I give my guards instructions to grab the next group of new arrivals for my father's inspection before turning for the exit. I need to get away from her, to clear my head—
"Psst. Prince Malachi? A word?"
Down the corridor, I find my Aunt Fox with her head pressed against the bars.
This is the last thing I need right now, but she catches me in a bad mood and so, rather than ignoring her and continuing out the dungeon, I signal for Crimson Guards to leave with the prisoners without me and I storm to Fox’s cell.
Seeing what's left of her hacked fingers wrapped around the iron makes me grateful for the empty stomach, and I avert my attention to her slightly-less miserable face.
"What is it?” I growl. “You know I shouldn't be seen speaking to you. Not here."
