Which means there will be fighting. Too much testosterone after a battle for Édouard to feel like sharing. Oh well.
“Tell him no weapons,” I say. “Fisticuffs only.”
Tereille’s laughter fades.
“Hot tub,” Juliette decides, still fuming. “And spritzers only for you.”
“If you all do hot tubs, I'll hang out.” My gaze flickers to Numair and stays there.
“Whatever you want is fine with me,” he says quietly.
I shrug free of Juliette and step toward him, letting his arms surround me as I settle against his chest. Numair is kinder, physically stronger, and a source of comfort, but I outrank him. His life and welfare are in my hands. I shouldn't be seeking comfort from him; he should be seeking it from me.
The complication is that it isn't only comfort he'd seek. He’s quietly let me know, over the years, that he’d be willing to be more.
“Numair isn’t for you, little thorn,”I hear Danon warn my fifteen-year-old self.“You’re marked to walk paths he can’t follow. Don’t return the looks he gives you, and Rinne—if you must, be cruel.”
But I won’t be.
I let him hold me for a minute, then step back. He lets go reluctantly.
“I don't think you're in the mood for the hot tubs,” he says,tucking some hair behind my ear. He wraps his fingers around mine and glances at Juliette.
“There’s a good red in my room,” I say. He purses his lips, but says nothing.
Numair goes to his room to shower while Juliette and I use mine. She’s done before me and when I exit, she’s already sitting on the edge of my bed, drinking straight from the bottle. I settle cross-legged on the bed, wrapped in nothing but a towel, and snatch it away to take my own long swig.
“You won't tell Numair or the others how fucked up you are right now,” she says. “But I know.”
She steals the bottle back for a long pull, then returns it. We drain it in less than ten minutes, a sorry way to treat a bottle of red, but it's also her sneaky way of making sure I don't drink the entire thing myself. I blink down at the bed, the comforter blurry.
A tear trails down my cheek. I’m supposed to be strong enough to protect them. My survival means nothing if they don’t live too.
Ward is driving me mad. “Of course I don't regret saving
them.” I try to calm my racing heart. No one needs to see my
cracks when they’re grieving.
“A cost of leadership is that you can't save everyone, Aerinne.
Lord Danon is hundreds of years old. You were sixteen.”
I lean my forehead on Juliette's shoulder as her arms wrap around my neck, almost strangling me. My mother. . .this iswhat she went through for centuries longer than I. This never-ending grief and wondering who would be next. I've barely slept, barely functioned during my “normal” days worrying about the next death.
“Sixteen is old enough to fight, to kill. But never old enough to protect.”
She knows I don't mean myself. I don't need or want protection.
“Come on,” she says hoarsely. “We need to fix our faces before Numair comes. He’ll go into fuss mode.”
“We pretend this was a victory,” I say. “The House needs a celebration. A real one.”
She must recognize the expression on my face because she says, “You do need protection, and you deserve it. What you
are feeling is?—”
“Survivor's guilt.” I lower myself to the floor of the gazebo and lean against the side, pulling my knees up and wrapping
