“Sleep,” I murmured against her hair, breathing in her scent, shampoo and woman and that particular sweetness of pregnancy. “Both of you need rest.”
I stayed awake, hand protective over where our child grew, feeling the occasional movements. The confusion was almost worse than the guilt. She should hate me, did hate me, but had still allowed this. I’d given without taking, tried to prove I couldbe something other than destructive, but what did that prove except that I could manipulate her body even if her heart stayed closed?
The marks on her throat had darkened, visible even in the darkness of the room. By morning they’d be purple, evidence of violence that came from my hands whether I remembered it or not. Just like Laziel’s death. Just like everything I touched.
But for now, in the false peace of darkness, I held the woman I’d destroyed. It wasn’t redemption, nothing could be, but maybe it was a start.
Or maybe it was just another way to cause harm, giving her gentleness she couldn’t trust, pleasure that came with too much pain attached. Another confusion in a relationship built on them.
Dawn would bring reality, harsh and unforgiving. But for these stolen hours, I could pretend I was capable of more than destruction. That my hands could heal instead of harm. That the mother of my child might someday look at me with fondness again.
Beautiful lies, all of them. But in the darkness, with her warm in my arms and our child safe between us, I let myself believe them.
Just for tonight.
31
— • —
Rhea
Morning arrived with a soft knock that definitely wasn’t Damon he never knocked. The sound pulled me from the edge of sleep where I’d been drifting, still wrapped in his scent from the night before. I grabbed the silk robe he’d left draped over a chair, wrapping it around myself with fingers that fumbled at the tie. The fabric whispered against skin marked by last night’s activities, tender spots where his mouth had been particularly thorough, sensitive places that made me shiver with remembered pleasure.
I opened the door expecting Nathan or another guard. Instead, my parents stood in the hallway like ghosts from another life. My mother held a breakfast tray laden with more food than I’d seen in months, while my father looked everywhere but at me the walls, the floor, the ceiling with its crown molding that probably cost more than we’d ever owned.
“Damon arranged for us to visit,” my father said stiffly, still not meeting my eyes. His voice carried the same careful neutrality he’d used in political meetings, but underneath I heard the strain. “Supervised, of course.”
The subtext was clear: they were allowed this kindness only because the King permitted it. We were all here on his sufferance, dancing to his tune. Behind my parents, I noticed a guard stationed at the corner, far enough to give the illusion of privacy but close enough to intervene if necessary.
My mother pushed past the awkwardness with the determination that had carried her through twenty-five years of marriage to a political climber. She swept into the room without invitation, setting the tray on the sitting area table with practiced efficiency. The china rattled slightly, the only sign of her nervousness.
“You need to eat,” she said, turning to study me with sharp maternal eyes. “You’re looking thin despite the pregnancy. That’s not healthy for you or the babies.”
Of course she’d noticed what others might miss. My mother had helped deliver enough children to recognize the particular exhaustion of carrying multiples.
The maternal fussing felt surreal after everything that had happened. Three months ago, we’d been torn apart in disgrace, dragged to the outbacks, me fleeing into the night. Now we were having breakfast like it was normal, like we weren’t all prisoners of different kinds.
“How are the outbacks?” I asked as we settled around the small table. The question felt inadequate for the magnitude of what I’d put them through.
“Survivable.” My mother poured tea with steady hands, the familiar motion probably comforting. “Your father has established some order among the exiles there. Amazing what twenty years of political experience can accomplish, even in reduced circumstances.”
New lines mapped my father’s face like territories of suffering. My mother’s hands showed calluses that spoke of manual labor, something she’d never had to do in our old life. Her hair, always perfectly styled, now hung in a simple braid with gray threading through like silver accusations.
The breakfast spread clearly came from the main kitchen, not the simple fare my parents would have access to in the outbacks. Fresh fruit glistened with morning dew. Pastries still steamed from the oven. Protein options suitable for pregnancy filled small plates. Damon’s hand in this arrangement was obvious, every detail calculated to provide what I needed while reminding us who controlled the provision.
“The compound looks the same,” my father observed, finally risking a glance at me. “As if nothing changed that night.”
But everything had changed. We all knew it. The three of us sat here by permission, not right. Our family had been shattered and poorly glued back together for this supervised visit.
Conversation stayed safely neutral, the weather, the food, carefully edited stories of outback life that wouldn’t violate whatever agreement they’d made for this visit. My motherpoured more tea with hands that trembled when she thought no one was looking. My father pushed food around his plate without eating, the gesture achingly familiar from stressful political dinners in our past life.
Then my mother’s sharp intake of breath cut through our careful performance.
“Rhea, your neck.”
The robe had shifted when I reached for a pastry, revealing not just the healed scar from the bond removal, but fresh marks. Bite marks bloomed purple against my pale skin. Bruises from Damon’s fingers painted a map of last night’s complicated encounter. Evidence of violence that couldn’t be explained away as anything, the placement too careful, too obvious.
My mother’s eyes narrowed with maternal fury quickly suppressed. She knew better than to show too much emotion here, but I caught the flash of protective rage before she shuttered it.
