Page 112 of Of Wind and Terror

Prince Treyton, who I can’t decide if I hate or admire.

Prince Treyton, who’s my fated mate.

I find that I can’t focus on him—on his penetrating stare that sees too much—so I instead take a glance around his room.

It’s small, though I’m not surprised. Blaze and his father don’t seem like the type of males who would supply extravagant rooms for their guests, especially guests like the Spring Prince. A single bed dominates the center of the room, flanked by two nightstands. A dresser rests against the wall opposite the bed, and beside it is a door that no doubt leads to a bathroom. The air smells stale and almost moldy, though the wind from the open window does a good job of dampening the stench.

“Did you come here to yell at me again? Tell me you hate me?” Treyton’s voice is inflectionless as he moves to sit on the bed.

He rests his arms between his legs and bends his head forward.

Guilt swamps me, and I move until I’m directly in front of him. I place a single gloved finger underneath his chin and direct his gaze to mine.

Only when I’m sure I have his attention do I sign, “I’ve actually come to apologize.”

Shock splays across his face, chased away quickly by disbelief. And is that… Is that suspicion? “Why in the world would you apologize?”

Dread settles over my shoulders like a reaper’s cloak. “I never should’ve slapped you the way I did. Never. No matter how angry I got, that crossed a line, and I’m sorry.”

A multitude of emotions crosses his face, most of them there and gone too quickly for me to decipher them.

He cocks his head with rigid tension. “You’re apologizing to me…because you slapped me?”

“Yes.”

Treyton stares at me for a tick…before breaking into laughter. Dry, humorless laughter that sounds as if it’s being dragged up his throat by a rusty hook. “Kassandra, I wouldn’t have been surprised if you fucking murdered me after learning the truth. I deserved more than just a slap. I deserved to die?—”

“Don’t say that,” I interrupt, dropping to my knees before him and placing my hands on his knees.

He’s trembling—desperate, full-body tremors that remind me of the one time Madam Herra’s house was hit by an earthquake.

“I killed a lot of people, Kassie,” he says quietly, self-loathing evident in his voice.

“So have I. So has Blaze. So has Aleksander. All of us have killed. I still carry that guilt, even now.” Tears prick the backs of my eyes. “Did you know that I killed the Night King after he tried to…hurt me?”

His gaze snaps to my face, and the color drains from his cheeks. “What?”

“I thought it was just a dream. A nightmare. But now I know…” I allow my words to taper off, allowing the silence to finish the sentence.

Now I know that it wasn’t just a dream.

Now I know that it actually happened.

A tight band constricts around my chest, hellbent on suffocating me. Draven’s dad—or is it Sylvan’s dad?—wasn’t the first fae I killed, and he won’t be the last. I killed all of those wraiths. Mitchia.

Grief, anger, and sadness fight for the throne inside of me. I have no idea which one will conquer in the end.

“It’s different, Kassie, and you damn well know it.” He licks his bottom lip with a pained sound I feel in the hollow of my bones.

“Explain to me how it’s different.”

“It just is.” He swallows again. “You killed in self-defense. I killed innocent fae. Maybe that wasn’t my intention, but it’s what happened.”

“Should intention count for anything?” I demand. “Because if it does, then that makes me the bigger monster. I wanted to kill Mitchia. I wanted to kill the Night King. I wanted to kill, Treyton. Intention matters.”

A single tear cascades down my cheek and settles on my lower lip.

Turning my attention away from Treyton, I focus out the window instead. Gray, sagging clouds, thick with moisture, hang suspended in the sky. The sun is still visible, but it won’t be for long. The threat of rain is imminent.

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