Page 90 of Crowned By the Fae King

"If you gave a dragon chick to a nursing cat, she might raise him." She turned her eyes back out to the horizon. "He would surely grow up wanting nothing more than to be a cat, but he would never fit in. Other cats would see him and hiss. His jaws would be too large, and his sharp, sharp claws would never retract. There would always be flame behind his teeth, and the cats would know, and fear him for it." My swordmistress wet her lips with deliberate care. "If the keeper of the dragon-mews gave you such a beast, how would you treat him, novice?"

The tears in my eyes grew sharper. I blinked hard, trying not to cry in front of this self-possessed woman. "I'd get him a kitten," I said, choking back a sob. "I'd— I'd give him a friend." A single hot tear tracked down my face.

"Do you think," she said in her level voice, "that perhaps Faery has done exactly that?"

"He calls me 'lioness,'" I whispered hoarsely. Another tear fell, and another.

"Just so, novice." My swordmistress got to her feet with easy power. "Even the smallest kitten may grow to have a fearsome bite. Remember that you are mortal, and he is faery," she said, nudging the scabbard of my sword with her toe, "but remember, too, that you have claws."

Under the Stars

Icouldn't do anything but sit there trembling as my swordmistress walked away. I couldn't stop imagining Cass—remembering him, seeing all the times his expression shuttered when people looked at him like he was a god or a ticking time bomb. Why couldn't they just see?

Why couldn't he just see; look at himself in the mirror and decide, no more? He was so strong. He was so beautiful, his glorious wings more suited to the title of Archangel than King, an impossibility that put mere feathers to shame. He shouldn't be curled up in a dark room, those wings hunched and his hands up against his chest. He should be standing in the summer sun—striding into a room with the sunlight of his smile warming everyone in it—laughing and dancing and dressed in beautiful things without caring who saw—

Cass shuddered, and I shuddered with him, unable to pull away, the tears hot on my face. His tears, my tears… I didn't know anymore. I couldn't tell them apart.

"I'm sorry," I whispered in a broken voice, knowing he wouldn't hear me. "I'm so sorry." The silent tears cut tracks across my cheeks.

Along his collarbone, he traced, H-I.

I started bawling. Wracking sobs tore at my throat and wrenched my whole body into a tight ball. I couldn't do anything but cry. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed, my fingernails digging into my scalp and the heels of my hands pressed so hard against the sockets of my eyes that stars danced in the black of my vision.

I felt him moving. Felt him get up, and walk, and put his hand on the wall. If he came here, I—I couldn't—

He stepped through the door the palace made him, and then his shadow was falling on me from feet away, his hand on the back of his throne. "Quyen," he said, sounding heartbroken.

I couldn't even look up at him. I only cried harder, starting to rock in place, too wracked with pain to stop.

"Don't cry." Cass got down onto his knees next to me. He reached out and stopped, inches away, his hand trembling. "Quyen," he said again.

"You don't—deserve this," I choked out through my tears. "Don't deserve… me." I was such a fuck-up. Couldn't stop trying; couldn't stop doing. Couldn't tame my anger, even as I watched myself hurt the people I least wanted to harm.

"No," he said, very gently. His fingertips brushed against my dangling earrings. They swung, a proxy for touch. "I don't."

He said it like I was a treasure.

I dug my fingernails harder against my scalp. Every breath tore at my throat. "How can you say that? How can you think that?"

Cass took a deep breath. You stand up to me, and for me. You defied a goddess for me, he said inside my soul. Every aching fear came with the words. He wanted to touch me, wanted to hold me, wanted us to survive this together—and was terrified that I would flinch away.

He still thought he was too dangerous to be trusted, I realized. Cass had proven himself a man who could stand against a goddess – a starved and desperate goddess, but still a goddess – and he was sure, down to the depths of his soul, that he was something to fear. That I would fear him.

My mouth trembled, but the tears halted. Slowly, moving by fractions, I lowered my hands.

"Lioness," he said hoarsely.

I almost burst into tears again from the pet name, thinking of a dragon and a kitten. Of what it would be like for that dragon to have that little ball of fluff mew at him, and bat his tail, and keep coming back for more on wobbly legs with her tiny triangle tail pointed up, even when he forgot himself and was far too sharp for a cat's comfort.

I dragged my eyes over to him, emotional exhaustion making them heavy, and caught sight of his wounded arm. Blood soaked the sleeve of his shirt and stained the cloth he'd awkwardly tied around the horrific injury. Half his fingers were curled, not like they were relaxed but like they were paralyzed, and dried blood crusted his skin. "Cass, your arm," I said, horror lacing my voice.

He drew it back, shifting his body to hide it from view.

"Cass," I said again, shifting so I could look up into his face. "It's been hours."

He didn't meet my eyes. Shame made my skin prickle. "It's an iron wound. They're difficult to heal," he said, in the shamefaced way of someone who'd been buried under depression trying to explain why there was food rotting in the sink. "I can likely manage it, but it takes a lot of power and focus to accelerate natural healing. Power I have. Focus…" He let out a breath that tried to be a laugh. "Not so much."

I turned my whole body towards him and searched his expression. He looked like a beaten dog does: exhausted, hurting, yearning for kindness. "Does it hurt?" I asked.

---