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I shouldn’t care.
I don’t want to care.
I should hate Alessia.
Despise her—simply for what she is. What her humanity constantly reminds me of.
And I need to let her go—force her to go.
But if that’s true, why can’t I loosen my grip? Why do I harness that inexplicable urge to protect her, to keep her close? Despite the way she angers me...I find a piece of my soul at ease with her around. I’ve never… felt a tug quite like that before.
Maybe it’s because, for the first time, I don’t see someone who pities me, judges me, or fears me. Yes, she is fearful of me, but it’s not the same. It’s on the same level of fear and apprehension she holds for everything and everyone else. I’m not special in that regard.
No.
In those grey eyes of hers, I see a challenge. Potential for an equal. Someone who might understand me because they’re not so different deep down.
My lips tilt up at the thought, then I quickly smother it.
Because that can never happen. I will never allow a human—especially not a skittish thing like Alessia—be the one who cracks me open and spills my secrets.
I will never allow her to make me weak like her.
And even if I did allow it, she could never survive it.
My fascination with her is dangerous, but I can’t help the natural response my body and attention has to her.
If she weren’t human, I’d wonder if perhaps she was my—
No.
That thought is not worth entertaining. She is entirely human. I can smell her humanity radiating off her. Even if she were somehow glamoured to look human, perhaps, her blood would still carry the distinct scent of faerie.
It’s impossible to hide from someone like me.
And her scent is unmistakably human.
She is not mine, and she never will be. The best I can do is protect her, help her grow, and send her on her way before she ruins me.
Yes. I will have Kenisius train with her.
I will not pluck her or keep her. But I can prune her. Water her. Watch her grow, like the little rose she is.
twelve
On Rainer’s Terms Only
Alessia
The next day flies by, and though I’m tired, when night comes, I toss and turn for what seems like hours. My mind is a whirlwind of panicky thoughts and regrets. It’s easier to ignore them during the day, when I’m up and moving. But when I try to rest, they all float to the surface, desperate to drag me down and drown me.
Someone knocks on the door late into the night, right as I’m on the verge of being consumed by my thoughts.
“Who is it?” I call, my voice hoarse with exhaustion.
A grunt greets me. “Just open the door, girl.”
I throw the covers off me and jump out of bed, swinging the door open to see Das Celyn with an annoyed look and a tray in their hands. They thrust it at me, and some liquid splashes my thumb.
