Page 71 of Kissed By the Gods
I fall backward to the ground with a sigh, my eyes finding the heavens. “I’m not even sure what I’m fighting,” I admit. “Some days I’m clawing at nothing, for nothing.”
“You’re not clawing at nothing,” he says. “You’re still here. That can be enough for now.”
I don’t think he’s trying to comfort me with pretty words. He says it like it’s a truth.
“I miss them,” I confess, the words slipping past my lips before I can stop them. “My family, my parents, my brothers. But sometimes … Sometimes what I miss the most is who I was before all of this.”
“I miss my family, too,” he says quietly. “And I miss who I was when I was theirs.”
Maybe it’s the simple understanding in his answer that prompts more. “I used to think that if I could survive long enough, if I could endure, I could get back to her. The girl I used to be. How sad is that?”
He sighs, but it’s not one of exasperation. “It’s not sad, rebel girl, but you can’t go back. None of us can.”
I close my eyes, breathing against the ache in my chest. There’s a rustle in the dirt as he crosses the yard, and I don’t have to open my eyes to know he’s lain down next to me—theheat of him seeps into the ground, into the little bit of empty space between us. For a while, we just breathe. When I finally open my eyes, it’s to see the stars blink overhead.
They’re beautiful, but I can’t help but think they must be cold. Like the gods I don’t understand, they’re distant and uncaring, far away from a world that’s not theirs.
Next to me, Ryot shifts and our arms brush, in a brief, accidental touch that sends a shock of heat through the night’s chill. I ignore it.
“I don’t know who I’m supposed to be now,” I whisper.
“You don’t owe that answer to anyone. Not the archons. Not the gods. No one gets to decide that but you.”
I turn my head toward him. He’s already looking at me. Without thinking, I reach out and brush the backs of my fingers against his hand. At first, he doesn’t move, but then he shifts to turn his hand palm-up. His fingers curl loosely over my own, which rest on the jagged gash that marks him as mine.
A crash behind us shatters the moment. I snap my hand back as Ryot sits up and grabs his sword in one smooth motion. Faelon stands at the gate to our Ra’veth training area with his arms crossed.
“Am I interrupting?” Faelon asks, a shit-eating grin on his mouth.
Ryot sighs but climbs to his feet. “You’re always interrupting, Faelon.” Ryot slides his sword into the holster he wears on his back and then points a finger at me. “Get some rest. We leave for our patrol rotation tomorrow.”
I smirk up at him. “Yes,Master.”
His lips twitch before he turns to walk away. I’ve seen other wards—from other vanguards—get whipped for this kind of insolence, but Ryot likes it when I’m snarky.
He slaps Faelon on the shoulder as he walks past. “How was the Crimson Feather?”
Faelon’s grin widens. He shoves his hands in his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. “Oh, you know,” he says. “Full of bad decisions wrapped in beautiful packaging.”
Ryot grunts, and then he’s pushing out the gate and striding away. My gaze follows his retreating back until Faelon lets out a low whistle.
“You keep looking at him like that, and people are going to start making bets.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Bets?” I ask, aiming for casual, but probably missing it by a league.
He smirks. “On how long it’ll take before one of you breaks—and then breaks the rules.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Faelon holds up a hand.
“Relax,” he says. “I won’t say anything. You two wouldn’t be the first to develop feelings around here. But a word of advice? Try to keep it casual. Loving someone gets you whipped harder than straight insubordination.”
I huff out a breath that’s part embarrassment, part exasperation. “Thanks for the unsolicited advice.”
“Anytime,” Faelon says, flashing a grin, but it falters a hair. He shifts his weight and slides a hand from his pocket. “Speaking of bad decisions.” He tosses an envelope at me. “This was handed to me at the Crimson Feather by a beautiful blue-eyed woman with the barest traces of a Selencian accent.” Faelon shrugs a shoulder casually, but his eyes are sharp and trained on me. “She asked me to give it to the new female Altor.”
A chill runs up my spine. A beautiful blue-eyed woman with a Selencian accent … He must mean Maeravel, the rebel commander’s daughter. There aren’t many beautiful Selencian girls left—most of their parents scar them before they grow so the soldiers don’t pay them much attention.
I clutch the envelope to my chest. “You didn’t know her?”
