Page 36 of Where We Belong

“Not really.” There’s no point pretending. I look like shit. I caught my reflection earlier today, and the dark circles under my eyes almost look like bruises blending in with the patches of dirt on my cheeks. He hesitates, his brow tightening. “What can I do to help?”

“Well, can you take me home?”

His face falls. “I cannot.”

“Then there’s nothing you can do. Unless—” His lips part and he leans forwards ever so slightly. “Unless you want to answer some questions. Like why everyone is calling you my betrothed? Where I’m from, that means we’re supposed to be married.”

He adjusts himself, then draws in a slow breath. “It means the same here. We’re to be married. Or bonded, as we call it. It begins with a kiss. That’s what awakens our bond in me and opens some pathways between us. To our magic. And a few other things.” A little heat spreads through my cheeks at the idea of kissing him, wondering if his canines would get in the way. But it’s his voice that’s doing something to me. It’s like melted sugar. “Then the ceremony awakens it fully on your side and seals it. It would be performed as part of The Creed. Have you not had a chance to read it yet?” He asks the last part carefully.

I shake my head. Avoiding my death prophecy like the plague has become a new hobby of mine. It’s woven into tapestries, painted onto portraits. Even engraved on the breakfast plates. I don’t want any kind of insight into my demise. No reminder that once again, I’m not loved. I’m a means to an end. I’m supposed to make this my home, to desire to set them free. But it just feels like a waiting room for my own death. “So right before you kill me for your freedom, I’ll be forced to kiss you. And marry you?”

I ignore the audacity of him to look hurt and the pulse of pain in my heart that could belong to either of us, since I’m literally going to be forced to die for some magical bullshit. Hopefully, my screwed-up face speaks for me. He opens his mouth and closes it again, as if pulling back a confession, before finally saying,

“I will not let you die, Ashley. Only if you are willing, we will find a way to complete the ritual without your death, or I won’t let it happen,” he says that last part extremely low, so that only I can hear it. As if it’s something to be hidden. Something that would cause an uproar. The idea that someone might choose me, my life, over their precious fucking curse. The same curse they swear is unbearable, yet they’re all still standing here, breathing, living, carrying on just fine. Meals prepared, beds made, doing what they love. And this, this has to be whispered? How can caring whether I live or die be some kind of dirty little secret? Fuck them and fuck their curse. We can all rot down here for all I care.

“You know, I don’t really trust anyone here to have my best interests at heart. How do you know you won’t be able to stop me from dying? It’s obvious no one knows what they’re doing. Nothing you did to me worked, did it?”

He winces, probably at the same memories. Our eyes fall to where my fingers trace the pink butterfly shaped scar on my wrist.

“Those experiments were the result of the foolishness of males who were trying to force the hand of Cinder Cliffs. It was clear they would never work. I will die before I let anything like that happen to you again.”

“Well then, Kaed, we’ll both be dead together, won’t we. Can we eat somewhere else?” I say to Eira, who I almost forgot was sitting there.

*

Back in the workshop, we sit across from each other while she nibbles at a fruit pie, listening to me vent. God, it feels good to get some of this out.

“It’s this place. It’s him. It’s everyone bowing and saying Highness and Princess. It’s the fucking heat. It’s so fucking hot, Eira. It’s my – my feelings, where do I put them, my magic is gone, and I miss it.” Traitorous tears burn the sides of my eyes, and my nose fizzes, but I won’t cry like a little bitch. I’m fed up with crying. I cried so much in that cell, my eyes swelled shut most nights. Eira’s brows pinch together. “So much has happened to you, plus, your magic is stunted by the wards so that’s got to be uncomfortable. You started to Turn in The Above, right? Your body and mind might still be playing catch-up if the process was interrupted.” She gulps down a glass of water and looks towards the door a second before a familiar face pops in.

Cook dips into a deep bow and puts a plate of fruit down in front of me. He knows not to call me anything but Ashley, but I haven’t told him just yet that he doesn’t need to bow. There’s something about someone that handsome and strong lowering his head to me. It gives me a bit of power at a time when I feel like I don’t have any at all. My stomach heats at an intrusive thought of Kaed doing the same. Urgh. Just get out of my head already. I hate how conflicted he makes me feel. I want to be around him, but he reminds me of everything I want to run from.

“I know you don’t feel like eating but, a few bites will help, I promise. Even though you’re not actively flaying things, you’re still using magic by just being in Sheyole. Using magic drains us, and food restores some of that strength. Your body’s working overtime healing your malnutrition, which is using up more magic, and well, it’s a horrid, horrid cycle.”

There’s something so endearing and honest about Cook, almost human. Even his hair seems to bounce along with his words. And he’s right. It happens to Eira when she works, eventually she has to stop and eat. I used to think I was having a heart attack whenever those random waves of pain and nausea hit me, on the beach, during job interviews. Scurrying home or to the nearest take away joint to inhale something oily and carby. Up until now I thought it was just the munchies. The colourful fruits are sliced thin and fanned out into a pretty flower arrangement. Taking a deep breath, I pinch something that looks like an oversized burgundy grape and chew. My nose wrinkles as the fruit crunches and bursts, heat thrashes aggressively on my tongue. Eira busies herself with her pie giving me a version of privacy, but Cook’s smile is so wide I can’t help but giggle.

“Yes?” I say through a contorted face.

“I added some lemon juice and chili flakes to that one, it’s good, isn’t it?”

“Rhory!” Eira exclaims, half a giggle spilling into the words. “You’ll kill her, all for the sake of showing off!”

He puts a large hand over his mouth in fake outrage, and I choke out a laugh, pepper blossoming on my tongue. “Ah see, she’s fine.” Almost immediately, the tension my body’s been clinging to finds a little release. It feels good. I reach for another, scraping away most of the chili with the edge of the plate, before popping it into my mouth. Rhory shakes his head and mutters something about cooking me masterpieces this whole time when I just wanted bog standard fruit. He leans on the counter opposite, resting his chin on his hand and studying me while fiddling with some scraps of metal. “How old were you when you Turned?” He asks.

“Turned where?”

Eira chuckles. “No silly, Turned. When you became immortal.”

Are they crazy? I choke mid-breath. “I’m not immortal.”

They glance at each other like they don’t know if they’ve said something they shouldn’t have. I know they’re immortal, burdened to live forever, but I most certainly am not, thank heck. I’m not even full fae or whatever. I’m only half.

“You’ve definitely Turned, that’s how you were found.”

I frown. I hadn’t even put a thought to how they knew where I was. Eira huffs like I’m being slow on purpose and Cook throws one of my grapes at her.

“Stop it, Rhory! The King has Seers. They fall under your best friend, Captain Kaed, they find fae or things with magic by—” she closes her eyes, flailing her hands in the air dramatically, provoking a little burst of laughter from Cook, “doing this over a map. The day you Turned, one of them saw and voilà. That night they came and got you. Well, the Captain did and – you know...”

Yes, I do know. Then I was tortured until I begged for death, and now I wake up every morning drenched in sweat and fear. I’ll tell you one thing: there’s no fucking way I’m doing this shit forever. You’re telling me if their ritual doesn’t kill me, I have to keep living? I’m not in a rush to die like I was in the cell, but I’m not trying to hang around for a thousand bloody years like Herod. Maybe it’s something my younger self would have wanted, the version of me that was hopeful. But I’ve seen the world now, what it has to offer. I can’t imagine it’s going to get better. How would I afford to pay rent for eternity?