Page 99 of Of Wind and Terror

Where the fuck is Treyton going?

I watch with furrowed brows as the irritating Spring Prince ducks out from our burrow. Kassandra is fast asleep in my arms, but Aleksander is still awake, his eyes flinty and his mouth firm.

We exchange an eloquent glance, and I shift slightly, allowing Kassandra to fall into Aleksander’s lap. He immediately bands his arms around her, holding her close, and I blow out a breath.

“Protect her,” I growl, crawling out of our makeshift cave.

“With my life,” Aleksander vows.

I curse as I straighten. The burrow was not meant for a male my size, and my back muscles scream in protest. I stretch, lifting my arms above my head, and then search the Forest for any sign of Treyton.

But I see nothing.

Maybe he’s just going to take a piss. He has no reason to wander off.

And yet a tiny voice in the back of my head warns me that danger is approaching.

I don’t understand why I even care. I hate Treyton. It’s a type of loathing that ascends all common sense or reason. I want to strangle him with my bare hands. Bathe in his blood after I slit his throat. Break bone after bone after bone until he can’t even walk.

The bastard killed thousands of my citizens.

And not just my citizens…

No, the virus has expanded and is now ravaging populations across the globe.

How many fae have died because of him? How many will die? Kassandra can’t help everyone with the black virus, and even if she could, I wouldn’t let her. Gaia only knows the consequences. She lost her voice because of the black virus. Her hearing.

What else will she lose?

Anger thrums through my veins, and I find myself stalking forward with a new purpose in mind—destroy Treyton once and for all. I won’t allow him to hurt her again.

I don’t care that he’s her apparent mate.

I don’t care that he’s sorry.

Sorry doesn’t bring the dead back to life.

I know self-loathing—I’ve seen it time and time again in the mirror—and Treyton wears his on his sleeve. It’s etched across every line on his face, visible in the shadows underscoring his eyes. The male is a fucking wreck, but it’s not enough. Nothing will ever be enough to make up for what he did.

Until recently, I never cared about the lives lost in this senseless war. Didn’t give a single shit about the black virus and the fae it impacted. Why would I, when I knew the virus wouldn’t affect me?

I suppose I’ve grown callous over the years. There’s not a lot that can penetrate my armor. But now that I have Kassandra, everything has changed. I find myself wanting to protect the fae under my protection. I wonder what their story is, if they have family or friends, if they’re loved by someone. Those thoughts never once crossed my mind only a year ago, but now they’re all I can focus on.

If I lost Kassandra, I would lose my damn mind.

How many other fae felt the same way about someone I killed? How many lives have I destroyed because of past transgressions?

I suppose Treyton and I are similar in that respect. We’ve both done stuff that we’re not proud of. Stuff that Kassandra would be horrified about if she ever discovered.

The revelation stills my legs, and I freeze, scrubbing a hand down my face.

How can I hate Treyton when my own sins are just as daunting? Just as damning? I haven’t yet revealed my “truth” to Kassandra—at least, not all of it—and I have a feeling she’ll be appalled. Disgusted.

Just like she is with Treyton.

A strange combination of sympathy and empathy weaves together and coils around my heart. I find myself thawing, at least slightly. I don’t forgive Treyton, but maybe… Maybe I understand him.

Still want to kill the bastard though.

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