Page 8 of Of Gods and Pain

He slowly turns on his heel, his jaw locked, eyes dark—the color of burnished caramel spearing me with raw fury. The sight nearly takes me to my knees; he is devastating. I’ve always appreciated his looks, but this is different.

My abdomen tightens as he slowly steps towards me, unblinking, fists clenched. Petrichor is heavy in the day’s fading light, surrounding us in our own world of heavy tranquility.

“Apologies, my prince,” he utters through clenched teeth. “Please, allow me to rephrase myself. Clearly, his Royal Highness, Prince Casmir Vaintera, does not give one single fuck about the female he claims to love. Clearly, His Majesty is not affected by the gravity of this situation.” He’s directly in front of me, eyes locked with mine; his chest brushes the delicate space between us.

“Clearly,” he’s nearly shouting, “my fucking prince needs some help understanding what the fuck is at stake right now.”

My blood is trembling. I'm breathing so quick that I have to part my lips to inhale more oxygen. I watch him, his eyes deepening each second I allow this tension to fester. My shoulders drop as I lose all will to argue back, because he’s right. As much as I’m feeling inside, I haven’t been open with it. I’ve shoved all the negativity aside so that I could continue being a prince. Emrys has always worn his feelings like a brightly colored cloak. It took a long, long time for him to not care about others always knowing how he feels, but it’s something he embraces now.

It’s something he needs from me.

As soon as I admit it, a heavy lump fills my throat and my vision becomes blurry. “It’s my fault, Em,” my voice breaks, and relief surges over my skin, causing the small hairs on my arms to rise.

Confusion flashes over him before he shakes his head. “What?”

“It’s my fault she was taken.”

My whispered confession hangs in the air between us. I can tell he’s trying to work through how Andras kidnapping our soul bond could possibly be a result of my stupidity. I didn’t tell him about the letter, either.

So I tell him now. I explain about the scout’s information, and how I withheld it from them because of everything else happening. How I was going to explain it to them, but she left before I could.

I tell him how she’d still be here—unharmed—if I had just stopped hesitating before every decision and told her. Regardless of how upset she already was. She deserved to know as soon as she brought up leaving the first time.

My hands shake and a tear slips down my jaw as I say all of this out loud, finally accepting the role I played in her current torture.

Emrys

What? Where did all of this come from?

Maybe I shouldn’t admit to snooping, but I saw the letter on his desk. I didn’t realize it was chewing him up, but I also don’t understand why? I look at him…really look. And I see my heartbroken best friend beneath the hard exterior he creates for himself. His hazel eyes are foggy, detached, and his brows are in the same scowling state they’ve been in for weeks. Have I really just been so caught up in myself that I kept pushing aside the obvious?

He thinks this is his fault.

He doesn’t see that he had nothing to do with her kidnapping. Andras is the demon here, not him.

I let my tense muscles relax now that I understand we’re both struggling, just in different ways. He may have been a dick, using his rank against me, but I’ve been one, too. Using his way of coping against him.

His eyes find mine, begging me to understand the things he can’t say. He bites his lip, and I watch as he tries to hide the trembling.

Fuck.

My hand reaches around to grab the back of his neck, my fingers shifting the dark strands of his hair. A shiver passes over his heated skin. I give him no warning or choice as I pull him to me, pressing our bodies together and wrapping my other hand around his waist to hold him there. He goes rigid for a moment before releasing a shuttering breath and sliding his arms around me. He buries his face into my neck, squeezing me as if I’m the last thread holding his soul together.

I rest my cheek on his shoulder, closing my eyes and taking in everything I feel in this moment. Jasmine greets my nostrils as I inhale his scent; the defined muscles on his back allow my hand to wrap around them as if they were made to be held by me. His neck is the perfect size for my grip, which allows me to keep him here for a while longer.

I’m not sure if this is for him or me.

I cringe, trying to shove as much of my too thin body into the corner of this dark, damp room as I can. I tuck my face under my arm, not wanting to see the horrors walking toward me.

But the footsteps outside the hanging fabric in the doorway continue past my room. I’m shaking, my breathing heavy, and my chest feels like it’s being squeezed very hard. I immediately recognize the signs, having gone through this twice before.

The first time I had an attack, I thought I was dying. It was so bad that I risked going out and begging mother to take me to a healer. That was a mistake—she sold me twice that night as a punishment for bothering her with “childish nonsense.”

Since I didn’t die from the symptoms, I kept to my room the next time it happened. Now, I realize what it is: panic. I start feeling this way when I get overwhelmed by something. Today, I’m terrified mother will make me work. The sweaty man from last night really hurt me, and I can’t do it tonight.

Tears track down my face, and I attempt to wipe them away and dry my eyes. If mother catches me crying…

I close my lids, taking sanctuary in the darkness. I force myself to slow my breathing by taking deep, even breaths. My skin feels like thorns are pricking me from the inside, so I squeeze myself as much as I can, attempting to give my body the pressure it’s begging for.

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