Page 204 of Ashborne: Defiance

Yet, every night after the meal, or when I returned from a shift, I found myself bedding down in the stable.

Until, the fifth night, when it stormed and we’d flown patrol in ice-cold wind for hours, and I was exhausted.

When I entered the stable, it was utterly silent. Warm and dry. But the fierce, cold darkness roared outside.

I should have gone to Kham’s stable. Should have waited to hear her call out.

But I was so tired. It made me weak.

I didn’t remember making the decision, only checked behind me to make certain no stableboys would see, or other Furyknights returning might catch sight. But there was no one.

Moments later, I closed Koa’s door under the cover of the storm’s rumble, then snuck up to her loft. Grace didn’t stir until I slid in behind her on the bed.

And even then, she rolled over, without opening her eyes, curled herself into my chest, and sighed. As if with relief. And happiness?

When I wrapped my arms around her, I felt the tension leave my body, and the heat of her closeness warm me from the inside out. I sighed as well.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I would go to the treehouse.

Tonight, we’d rest together.

70. Impossible

SOUNDTRACK: Dancing with My Demons by LYRYXX

~ GRACE ~

Bren’s wedding day was beautiful. Sharing the days leading up to that precious event with her was a singular joy. It was also the first time I’d been alongside a woman about to be married who never even mentioned her husband-to-be’s status, or wealth. All Bren could talk about was being alone with Donavyn, wishing her mother could see it, and her excitement for the future.

She was living everything I’d ever hoped for, and at times, my chest pinched with envy. But I always pushed the uncharitable thought away.

I had no desire for Donavyn. The gruff general was a wonderful man, and I’d appreciated his help back in Fyrehold when we met. And loved watching his devotion to Bren. But Donavyn was not the man who set my heart thumping, or lit fire in my blood.

No, that peculiar sensation was reserved for one man. One dark, lithe, handsome, enigmatic man that I was supposed to call brother. The man who spent every day treating me as if he were merely my superior during training. Yet, every night, when my body tensed and the nightmares consumed me, he was there.

He whispered reassurance. Held me with strength. Wiped my tears. Soothed my fear. And never touched me beyond comfort.

Each new morning I vowed the next night I would make it without crying. Then felt sick at the idea of losing him. The first time he appeared in my loft before I needed him, a tiny, tight thread of hope pierced my heart when I woke to find him already there.

Yet, we never spoke of it. Each morning he left as silently as he arrived, leaving me to wash and dress in privacy. And when we next met, others were always present. He was once again brother. Once again mentor. Once again, busy.

But the first morning I woke in his arms, having slept through the night without entering the dark in my mind, that thread of hope grew cold and twisted. Because, surely, he only came to comfort me in my pain? And if the pain passed, then I became yet another job well done?

I waited, tense and unable to sleep the following night—slumping with relief when his hand appeared at the top of the ladder, and moments later, he curled against my back and pulled me to his chest.

I caught myself wishing for a nightmare, if only to keep him coming. It was a stupid, foolish thing to wish for, and told myself such.

“To the happy couple!”

A cheer went up around me, and I blinked, jerked back to the present, the wedding, as a toast was presented, and everyone in the ballroom applauded, then took a drink.

A Vosgaardian wedding was quite different to a Fyrehold affaire—far less formal. Much shorter, though still beautiful. And now we were all to attend a reception and dance afterward.

Bren and Donavyn would fly off together this evening.

She was dressed in the most beautiful gown I’d ever seen. My heart ached looking at it, my mind conjuring how it might be to walk down an aisle strung with flowers, to a man as tall, but trimmer, dressed in uniform, black hair falling into his eyes, his chin tilted down, and that suggestive half-smile pulling lines into his cheek—

“She’ll only be gone a few days, Grace. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of you.”