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A prison, as it turned out, that was of her own making.
Chapter 34
Bronze swallowed another mouthful of bourbon, not even allowing his flavor receptors to smell the roses as all that vanilla, oak, and caramel fire water traveled southward to his gut. There wasn’t much in there to impress anyway, so why bother with the sensory introspection? It wasn’t like the liquor had chased down a prime rib and wanted to talk about its feelings or anything.
Truth be told, Bronze wasn’t feeling much these days, and that was by fucking design. The Vermont watering hole he’d been setting up shop at the past several weeks was everything he needed: the thing wasn’t in Aurora, wasn’t in New Hampshire, and wasn’t anywhere near a certain mountain range that would have been far too easy for him to plow through just to locate a certain forested lycan property.
Besides, he knew better than to go after an animal that had taken a swing at him.
Even if the animal had no hope of truly harming him because he’d already ensured the worst of the damage and taken ownership of that shit like a flag drop on the lunar surface.
Bronze lowered the glass tumbler onto the mahogany bar, not giving a rip if he lined up the condensation circles he’d already made. That was what the place got for offering up cocktail napkins instead of proper coasters. Besides, he’d picked the sports bar because it was so damn loud, he couldn’t hear what the bartenders said half the time, let alone his own thoughts.
Which was just perfect, honestly. All he’d had to do was point at the bottle of Maker’s Mark Private Selection on the wall, hold up two fingers, and voilà! He’d had himself a standing drink order that had been seeing him through a whole lot of sunsets he’d rather not see.
Oh, yeah, and bonus points for keeping this little spot secret from his brothers. Bronze had made the fatal mistake of hitting the den after Clara had ordered him gone and then had to explain the whole shitstorm that had swept in on the heels of his failures.
Yes, I won the games but lost Clara.
Yes, I had the relic but torched whatever was left of its magic.
Yes, we’re still stuck here.
Yes, I lied to her and broke her heart.
Yes, she’s my soul bond . . . and never wants to see me again.
‘Kay, thanks. Bye.
Logically, none of this should have shocked him. Since he first signed up for the whole ride, he’d known his actions would put in place the very things that would ultimately have them go their separate ways. He just never thought his preferences had anything to do with it. But like he got to cop to that sort of excuse?
Deep down, he fucking knew. He’d always known. For how many years had his soul been stooped over, carrying around the weight of his oath? It wasn’t until he plucked Clara from that river that he’d finally been able to stand up straight.
Above the bar, a TV far too large for its cheap-ass mounting bracket blared some halftime interview roundtable with announcers giving their two cents on things they’d never been good enough at for anyone to pay them two cents to begin with. It was mind-numbingly pointless, and yet pointless was right up Bronze’s alley. He needed mind-numbing because he was that much of a coward.
Bronze took another sip and ran the cool glass along his jawline, chasing away an itch. He’d given up on the razor scene some time ago because he didn’t want to be reminded of anything that would bring a blade to a hair follicle. Every time he’d tried to run through the trim job, images of Clara tied to a tree, gagged, with half her scalp shorn and the scent of her blood in the air nearly drove him over the edge.
God, the way she’d shut down on him after reading Raff’s note. It was like every bit of her emotions had turned to ice and had then been locked solidly inside a glacier that had no chance of being penetrated until it destroyed every vessel that threatened to come in contact with it.
Bronze swallowed against the dryness in his throat, which was surprisingly at odds with how much liquored lubrication he’d been hammering. Was this what the mortals felt like when they got so drunk, even the rocks moved aside so there was never truly a bottom to hit?
Because he’d hit it, all right. Clara. His soul bond. His brave, beautiful mate who’d transformed herself into a formidable warrior for the sake of her people, had shrunk away from him after the stun of his lies.
And then, like any good predator, she’d attacked because he’d given her a reason not to trust him.
He’d hurt the one being for whom he’d merrily throw himself in front of a 777 just because the aircraft threatened to block out her favorite view of the sunset.
God, he’d throw himself off a bridge if he thought it would kill him.
Anything. He’d do fucking anything for her because he loved her. He didn’t just love her with his whole chest or being but with the eternity of a life unending. There were no earths left with ends he would go to for the mere chance she would even look at him because he’d explored them all over the eons.
He just never knew why. Never knew that what he was truly searching and fighting for didn’t require an oath. There was no blood sacrifice, no sworn commitment. Just a love he’d never had the stones to vocalize or earn in the way he needed to.
The fire burned hotter in his belly, though he wasn’t sure whether it was the abundance of pissed-off stomach acid finally coming for him or the conceptualized truth staking its claim on a shoddy foundation.
Bronze dropped his head into his hands and held the thing like the bag of rocks it was. Fuck, everything hurt, and if he played his cards right, everything would hurt again tomorrow, too, and the day after that if he was really lucky.
Fortune favors the brave, apparently. Yay.
