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He wouldn’t blame a child for their innocent, ignorant part in the treachery of an adult. Doing anything less for himself would be…hypocritical.

It was the poor actions in adulthood he needed to answer for. The choices he’d made with no real basis, no solid foundation.

Brand owed a lot of people an explanation.

He owed them all apologies.

Shite.

Tomorrow. He still had another day in him. Just one more day.

A note to Araxis during one of his turns of the wood lump procured Brand some damned soap for the laundering. Apparently, there were different kinds for different things, and the shite for the floor wasn’t meant to be used on fabrics.

As was made apparent during his first disastrous attempt to wash some of Luna’s clothes.

Hopefully she’d forgotten about that particular batch of dresses. It seemed likely, based on the fact that he found them buried under the bed, long out of sight. Every last one was cut strangely, too, like she had an entire phase of wearing those particular garments—essentially the equivalent of grain sacks, all sewn together into a gigantic rectangle. They were no great loss. Knowing her, though, she probably still looked fucking incredible in them despite how shapeless they were.

Brand sighed, heart aching, and pulled the rest of the washing from the line. When he was done folding everything into a basket he uncovered in the sitting room, he made for the cottage.

Cleaning it was the best choice Brand ever made. Most of it, anyway. He tended to avoid the bedroom except to sleep or quickly tuck something away, too sad when we went in there—like he was inevitably about to feel in the next few minutes when he put everything up.

The rest of the cottage kept him from boredom, which inevitably led to spiraling. Besides, it was a way to give something back to her. To show her that, even if he was currently fucked in the head, he was still able provide a functional space for her to live in.

Not throwing anything away was the hardest part. The daft creature possessed more dried flowers than the entirety of Lyriat’s garden, and for what? Then again, if he was being honest, finding a few vases and arranging them had been…nice. So, there was that, at least.

He trudged down the hall, shoring himself up, and tossed the basket onto the bed.

As usual, his feet rooted themselves there, his gaze locked on the lilac velvet blanket. The ivory sheets. The excess of pillows. On the soft and downy mattress where he made love to her for hours. Where he worshipped her skin and silken heat. Tasted every inch of her. Breathed her in. Listened to her sighs and screams, like music filling the air. Watched her arch and twitch and flex in her throes, so fucking beautiful it actually hurt to think about sometimes.

Except, when he thought about it…

Brand didn’t really worship her that night, did he?

Yes, he brought her to repeated release, but he didn’t care for her afterwards. He didn’t hold her and speak sweet words. He didn’t feed her, or wash the tender flesh he’d lovingly abused, or give her a break. He…he didn’t even kiss her goodnight.

He’d been feral. Taking and taking. Using her to drown the pain and the shadows, to lighten his darkness, hoping to find himself changed at the end. Hoping she would fix him.

You realize the truth…you will never find your healing in my body alone.

Luna knew. She knew what he was asking for and still agreed, telling him not to hold back. She enjoyed every moment, because he was obsessed with making sure of it.

That didn’t make it alright.

Especially when Brand was starting to realize why he was like that. Why he did the same with so many others, catering and bending backwards to ensure he rarely ruffled feathers, never giving anyone a reason to resent him or be anything but pleased.

Mostly, everyone else could fuck off. Being polite and diplomatic was part of his duty as the Fourth Imperial Son and High Ambassador. He accepted that.

Being so desperate with her, so…so afraid that he had to make sure she’d want to stay with him…

Weeping moons.

Brand buried both hands in his growing hair, still staring at the bed.

He should only pleasure his mate to exhaustion because he wanted to. No ulterior motives. Not because of fear. He should trust her when she turned those sea glass eyes in his direction with so much adoration that it leveled him. He should believe the words that came out of her mouth, mirrored in myriad actions that proved their truth.

And if Lunara the Moonweaver, Keeper of Illamiata—his perfect, blessed, Sisters-chosen mate—said he was all that is lovely and blessed in this world, everything that was good, who was he to disagree with her?

Especially when he never once accepted her self deprecation. When he made sure to tell her over and over again until she saw it for herself, because she deserved to have that confidence.