The mere thought of doing such a thing—of seeing him when I could never again truly see him—weakened my knees and squeezed my lungs in a vise of my own making.

No, denying myself wasn’t merely to protect Rorn, who didn’t deserve as much.

It was self-preservation.

So I painted Scythe’s wolf form instead, not expecting the warming of my blood to push at my skin with every piece of appearing fur. As always, my hands shook when I came close to completion. But this time, I stopped myself from ripping the parchment from the easel and tearing it to tatters.

Hungry, wildflower?

Breathing through my nose, I dropped the brush into the pot of clouded water and crossed to the window to watch the moonlight dance with the shadows between the trees over the river.

The towers were silent, allowing Rorn’s soft snores on the floor below to flood the stairwell.

In the sitting room beneath my parlor, he laid sprawled across the chaise, maps and empty wineglasses upon the table. Watching him at rest, the strands of dark hair that veiled his cheek, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, it was easy to remember.

To remember this young king had been handed a kingdom and the task of protecting it before he knew what that would rob from him.

His father had also been a young king. He’d barely reached one hundred and fifty years when he’d tried to end the unforeseen brutality between human and faerie. Being that he’d sought peace—for the human royals to cease all violence and placing blame upon the fae for the plague that had befallen their people—he’d taken only his guard with him.

He was slain upon being welcomed into the previous human king’s stronghold.

His portrait hung upon the wall above the fireplace next to his first-born son, Helvectus. Their twin gazes stared down at me, both touched by the stars with one eye a deep blue and the other an emerald green. The rare orbs were a sign of the alpha king.

Helvectus, with his long golden hair and his mismatched eyes, stared at me now as he had when he’d last passed me upon the stairs of this very tower—with a darkness of duty in one eye and the gleam of mischief in the other.

Helvectus had never married. Never mated nor procreated.

Rorn used to say it was due to his brother’s inclination to have himself as many bed partners as he wished. But I’d once overheard Helvectus admit to Theenon that he’d never subject any mate, wife, or offspring to the curse that he and his father had unknowingly placed upon this family and the isle.

I’d once thought Rorn’s brother selfish for it. Though I’d never implied as much, I’d thought him utterly obnoxious and insufferable for the way he had lived his life. Now, I was beginning to understand that perhaps we were the selfish ones.

Those who desired more no matter the cost.