Page 23 of Ties of Death

Is that what this is about? Is he so afraid of physical contact?

The gloves, even at night. He slept on the bed while we shared it, but on top of the covers, with a shirt—unlike how he used to. How he doesn’t casually touchanyonelike he used to.

I can see it lingering in his eyes. It hangs in the air, his fear of contact, of touching others. He equates his own touch with death. I knew he was wary about it. Understandable, given what he told me… but I didn’t realize how deeply it’s seared into him.

I can’t help it; sympathy wells in me. Even with what he’s done, living such an existence would be so lonely. No one deserves to feel so cut off from those around them that they fear even the slightest brush of skin.

So I do the only thing I can think of. I close the distance between us and I reach for him. He backpedals, gaze shuttering.

“No,” he growls. “Don’t, Emana.”

I halt. “The whole reason you stole me and forced me to marry you is because I’m safe—” He’s shaking his head, so I switch directions. “Your magic is already—”

“No.” The snarl rips the air.

I lean away from the ferocity in his tone. He’s never spoken to me like that, not even when I’ve hurled insults at him recently.

He drags a hand down his face. When he looks at me again, he’s regained a modicum of that stoic mask. “Please, Emana. Don’t touch me.”

My heart aches at those words. So bleak. Resigned.

Is it any wonder how he’s changed over the years if he’s walled himself off from everyone like this, intentionally drawn back from his own warm nature?

Instead of responding to his plea, I hold out the pot and bag. “If you’re so determined to do all the work, far be it from me to stop you.” I say the words lightly, moving to press the food supplies into his gloved hands. I slip past him to pick up the brush he dropped. “I’ll finish grooming Storm. It’s been far too long since we’ve gotten to spend time together, anyway.”

I greet Storm with scratches under his beak, earning a happy churring noise, before moving back to the side Daenn had been working on.

Daenn’s back is just barely visible over Storm’s flanks. He stands as still as a statue. I didn’t get a chance to study his expression, so I’m not entirely sure what he’s feeling, but I can almost imagine the ache echoing through him. It’s the same one that echoes through me for the boy I used to know.

I have faint hopes that, somewhere between training as a warrior and stepping into his role as king, Daenn had time to pick up a new hobby and his cooking has greatly improved.

Unfortunately, that is nothing more than a fantasy.

The soup is palatable. Over-salted, but not so much that I feel like I’m murdering my tongue with each bite. Not that I would have done any better, but I make a show of gagging as if it’s going to kill me anyway. I need the levity after our encounter earlier.

Daenn only rolls his eyes. He hasn’t spoken more than two words, but the silence has shifted to something almost companionable. As I chew, I consider what he told me before about his parents and compare it to my realization about his touch.

There is more to the story than what he said. I know there is. Right now, I want nothing more than to know the details he didn’t tell me before. I’m half afraid to know. What if his curse was the cause of my mother’s sudden illness and decline? She was gone so quickly. I didn’t even have a chance to travel back to say goodbye before she was gone.

But surely he would have told me if it was.

No, the old Daenn would have. I don’t know about this new one.

And, I think, my desire to know also stems from my foolish wish that he be the boy I once knew. And if so, it’s silly, and I should let the matter lie. But now that the thoughts have entered my mind, I can’t. I set my bowl aside. I’ve eaten enough to allay my hunger, and the food certainly isn’t good enough to eat more than that.

“Daenn,” I say softly, and his eyes jerk up to me as if he hadn’t expected me to speak to him again, or to use his name, which… that’s fair. I haven’t been the most amenable companion.

His gaze is focused, his attention entirely on me. It makes me want to squirm, but I don’t think he’ll answer my question if I don’t seem earnest, so I meet him head-on.

“Did… did your curse kill my mother?”

His hands tighten on his bowl, but he shakes his head. “No. She didn’t spend much time near me after you left, and I widened that distance once I realized what was happening. She fell ill and stayed in the infirmary for a few weeks. My curse never affects its victims like that, and I didn’t feel my magic move at all during that time. If you don’t believe me, you can check with Sigrid when we return.”

“I believe you.” Something inside me loosens. But I’m not finished. There’s more I need to understand. “I want to knowwhy. Why you took your father’s throne, why your mother died.” I’m careful with my phrasing. I don’t think he killed her. “Just... why?”

He goes very still, nothing moving but his eyes, but he seems to sense my earnestness because after a long, tense moment, he speaks.

“My relationship with my father was strained, like...” He trails off, but I know how that sentence would have ended: like always. His father always had high expectations, unreasonably high demands of Daenn. It’s part of why he’s the best in the clan. The best warrior. The best gryphon rider. His father would accept nothing less.

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