Page 33 of The Surrender

I thrust my chin at him and press my lips into a hard seam. But before I respond, a familiar voice, piercing and silky, breaks through the air to proclaim, “You may hold my baby!”

24

A too-delicate, tattered organ of shattered armor.

QUINTESSA

Always be seen. Always be used. But never be heard. Never be wanted. These were the lessons I learned young.

One moment, I’m lost in the darkness with my monsters surrounding me, comforting me, including challenging me—far better than the neglect in my life before the Veil of Souls.

The next moment, her melodic voice interrupts and tears through my anxiety, my trauma-born grief. At once, the Kings of the Waste shift to my sides: Kyan nearest to me with the edge of his wing skirting my back, Drago on my other side with a possessive, scaled hand around my waist, Merikh breathing his calm ice upon the back of my neck, and Mayce standing on the furthest flank, though he’s positioned himself a step or two ahead of them.

My breath hitches, mirroring my heart lodging in my throat as the raven woman from the ice caverns approaches with a tiny dark bundle in a sling bound to her chest.

I drop to my knees with tears like cascading ribbons down my cheeks. If Kyan is offended by my soiling the seraph feather skirts with frost and dirt, he doesn’t say anything.

But something that is caught between a snort and a high-pitched caw releases from the raven woman’s throat.

“I knew you were a spoiled queen. I should have assumed you were a dramatic one, too,” she huffs and flares her feathers while advancing closer.

The growl from Merikh, huff of smoke and embers from Drago, Kyan raising and curving his wings in a warning, and even Mayce retorting, “While her deeds in the Land of Ash have not yet spread to the Court of Storms, rest assured she has earned her saintly seals, Mother...”

“Zephella,” she snipes while lifting her beak, which serves far more as a nose than a mouth, considering her lips are pressed to a thin line.

Closer up, I survey how the wing silhouettes on each side of her are not mere attachments to her shoulders. No, they’ve fused into the very skin upon the side of her arms. I swing my eyes to the little bundle in her arms, how she rocks the babe over her shoulder while supporting the head. Ripping apart on the inside, concerned she will change her mind, I muster the strength to meet her eyes and nod my gratitude for her name.

“Quintessa,” I say softly.

Her eyes fall to my palms, and it’s the first time anxiety over my scars pulses my blood quicker. As if she’s focused more on the telltale aged wounds beneath the swirling ink adorning them. She sees the pain before the beauty.

My heart knots in my throat all the more until she closes the distance between us, rolls her eyes, and jerks her head to the village. “Stop your fussing, Quintessa. Come to my home, and you may hold the child while I prepare some brunch.”

Eyes watery and expectant, I whirl my gaze to the four gods around me, but Kyan speaks first, “I will enter with her. My brothers will keep watch outside your house.”

“Do as you will, my Lords. You will anyway.”

Kyan’s brows thread low, shadows around them brewing. I blink, overwhelmed by the exchange, wondering how she speaks to them like that. A flicker of possession sparks inside me because only I reserve the right to respond like that.

In any case, I accept Kyan taking my hand and raising me up since the gown feathers are heavy. I don’t hesitate to lean my head on his chest when he wraps an arm and wing around my side.

Along the way, I’d swear my scars must scribble their way right through the silk and lace and feathers girding me. Because the eyes of all the villagers...they are the eyes of the Borderlands people. Suspicious, oppressive with each orb so cold, they prickle a frost sensation upon my skin and grow gooseflesh. As much as Mayce’s words ground me in an explanation, as much as I may understand and even pity them, it doesn’t stop the demons of my birthland from rearing their heads.

But the treehouse...I ache from how quaint and lovely it is. It’s clear Zephella takes much pride in her home. An organic staircase, constructed into the base of the tree, winds in a half spiral to the treetop level where Zephella leads us. A sweet fragrance drifts through the air, and I close my eyes to inhale the essence of myrrh and incense.

As if sensing my thoughts, Kyan leans in and murmurs, “Spices from my homeland.”

When he brushes his knuckles across my cheek, the second time today, and ruffles his feathers, I consider the glint in his eyes. Something lies within that glint. It’s beyond his appreciation of my responses. Beyond the layers of torment from his exile. Inside the glint, it’s more than longing. It’s hope. It hasn’t blossomed into a ray yet, but I feel its twinkling heat regardless.

Zephella tugs on the rope latch of the heavy oak door to welcome us into her treehouse. Well, welcome is a stretch since she narrows her eyes upon me, sniffs at Kyan, and reminds him, “Your Lordship alone as you’d avowed. Not to make a stink, but I’d rather not have my cottage reeking of flouncy Fae, ruffian dragon, or a debauched bloodsucker.”

The possession grows with my annoyance until I’m pinning my lips together, balling my hands into fists, and nearly lurching. Kyan grips my elbow, forbidding my movement and holding me back with a chuckle. More amused by me than he is by dismissing the statement. I still blow wind through my nostrils even as he plants a kiss upon my brow and says, “Let it go, Quinny dear. It is not named the Court of Storms for the weather alone.”

I whip my gaze to him and read between the lines, wagering it’s the temperament of the people. Again, that hopeful glint shows in his eye.

“Be still, our wild and pretty soul. Of the many things you do not know.”

I do still. And rise on my tiptoes. Because it’s the first time his eyes have not darkened. The first time Shadow’s eyes have betrayed that glint. The first time he has not crooned or lilted. It’s enough to shake my blood, heat it with curiosity. But the burning in my throat and my arms aching to hold a baby for the first time are far more powerful than my curiosity.

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