“That bad, huh?” Rhy cocked his head at her, and she braced herself for a cutting remark. “Want me to go tell the girls you need some hand holding?”
“No!” That came out way too forcefully, and her nose was dripping. With nothing else to use but the beautiful dress, she wiped her nose with the back of her hand, certain that her mother, no matter how far away, knew and was cringing. Rhy handed her a folded cloth from his pocket, and she took it, bemused both that he had it and that he’d thought to offer. “I don’t really want to talk to anyone right now,” she amended.
Rhy nodded but didn’t move. “I’m like that, too. Prefer to lick my wounds in solitude. Has the added benefit of allowing me to feel sorry for myself.”
She should offer to listen, to give him comfort, but she didn’t have it in her. “Rhyian, I…”
“I was really angry at you,” he continued. “I’m sure you know that. Beyond furious that Mother gave you the Star of Annfwn.”
Groaning internally, absolutely unable to deal with this conversation at that moment, she nodded. “I know. For what it’s worth, I am sorry. Neither of us wanted you to be hurt.”
He shrugged, the gesture rippling through him though he stayed in the same pose, blue eyes keen on her. “I was especially pissed that you felt you had to keep it secret from me.”
“I shouldn’t have. I—”
“Of course you should have,” he interrupted. “And my being hurt, being pissed, is my problem, Nilly. Anyone can see that you should have the Star. You are the logical heir to both Annfwn and the sorcerous legacy of Salena’s line.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say to that. “Thank you.”
Shaking his head, he made a face at her. “Don’t thank me. You’re the right choice because of who you are. You’re a powerful sorceress, and you’ll be a good queen. Though you’ll need to work on your alpha presence. If you’re going to be queen, you’ll have to get a lot more commanding.”
She had no idea how to do that. “Maybe you should be king of Annfwn, and I’ll handle the sorcery.”
Grimacing ruefully, he unfolded his arms to wag a finger at her. “It doesn’t work that way. Father was king without being a sorcerer, and that went badly for Annfwn. Nope, you’ll just have to buck up.”
Wonderful. Maybe she could think about that when she didn’t feel so wrung out.
“Want some advice?” Rhy asked. “I realize I am not the guy people come to for sage advice, but I think I have something useful for you, since you and I are a lot alike.”
She blinked at him. “We are?”
“Yes, cousin.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “Old Willy the golden boy, he’s so different from me, you wouldn’t even know we’re related, but you and I—we’re the same inside. Haunted by the shadows of Moranu’s hand, ever changeable, never fixed. If we had less-charming personalities, they’d call us capricious. Fickle, even.”
“I am not—”
“Why are you out in the hall weeping when everybody knows that both you and Jak wish you were inside that room?” He jerked his head down the hall.
“We argued,” she answered weakly.
“So? People argue. The more they care, the more painful it is. What you do is go back in there and sort it out.”
“Like you did with Lena?” she asked, stung enough to say what she normally wouldn’t.
“Exactly,” he replied softly. “Like I didn’t do with Lena. Because I chose to lick my wounds and suffer in solitude rather than dealing with her and the consequences of my actions. All because I was afraid. Lena got to me. I loved her, and I couldn’t stand to be that vulnerable to her.”
You’re afraid… you can’t bear for anyone to see inside you, to truly touch you emotionally.
Rhyian eyed her knowingly. “A lot alike, you and I. The big difference is that you cope by diverting attention from yourself by tending to everyone else, while I deflect by being a sarcastic asshole.” He grinned, though it quickly faded. “Take my advice, cousin of mine: Don’t fuck this up. Go back in there and fix it. Because if you don’t do it now, you might not get another opportunity. Learn from my great cautionary tale. Someone should.”
Pushing himself off the wall, he gave her a jaunty, if slightly sarcastic, salute. “I’m off to find somewhere else to sleep.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking back down the corridor. “Tell Jak the debt is paid,” he tossed over his shoulder.
“When did you gain so much self-knowledge?” she called after him, still more than a little annoyed. Galling, for Rhy to be giving her advice.
He glanced back, eyes smoky with remorse. “The thing about licking your wounds in solitude? Gives you a lot of time to think.”
~ 20 ~
It took more courage than she believed she possessed, but Stella made herself walk back down the quiet corridor and open that door. It would’ve been polite to knock—and she nearly did, knuckles poised near the carved wood—but if Jak came to answer the door, they might end up continuing the fight in the hallway, and she didn’t think she could bear that.
So she turned the handle, holding her breath lest Jak had bolted the door behind her. It opened easily, and she stepped inside. The candles all still glowed, the petal-strewn bed untouched, her hairpins and Jak’s clothes piled on the floor where they’d left them before she ruined everything.
“Rhy, man,” Jak called from the fireplace where he stood, shirtless, trousers hanging low on his narrow hips. He still wore his glossy black boots, and he had his forearm braced against the mantel, head bowed as he stared at the fire, whiskey bottle dangling loosely from his other hand. “I know I said if the door’s unbolted to come on in, but if you love me at all, you’ll leave. I’m in a foul mood.”
Stella closed the door and bolted it.
“Stay at your peril, then.” Jak snorted, setting the bottle on the mantel, then starting to turn. “Or maybe we can brawl. You couldn’t beat me up any more than—Stella.”
“Me.”
“Came back to claim your hairpins? I think they’re on the floor there with the pieces of my heart. Hey, gives you another opportunity to grind the still-bleeding shreds of it into the rug with your delicate, pointy heels.”
She rolled her eyes, advancing on him. “Oh, that’s not dramatic.”
“Dasnarians excel at that kind of thing,” he informed her, tucking his thumbs into the belt that held his blades. “Really, it’s good that you broke my heart. Now I have a tragic tale of love unrequited to tell at the taverns.”
“You’ll need better alliteration to earn your way as a poet,” she retorted, “since you won’t be earning coin throwing knives when you’re a drunkard.”
He bared his teeth and reached for the whiskey bottle. “It takes a lot more than one bottle to dull my wits, sweetheart. Why are you here?”
Screwing up her courage, she went to him, neatly plucking the bottle from his hand. On impulse, she hurled it into the fireplace, satisfied by the shattering glass and the whoomph of billowing flames as they consumed the volatile liquid.