But apparently, since arriving in Blood City, her vocabulary had been reduced to unfinished sounds, startled profanity, and the occasional lie.
“Do you despise me that much,” Magnus asked, “that you won’t even want to be anywhere near me?”
Erin looked up sharply.
“I don’t despise you.”
Magnus’ mouth moved slightly, not quite a smile.
“Yes…You just don’t love me.”
Erin had no answer.
What could she say?
That it was more complicated than that?
“That is not a reason for hiding in the closet. But I shall see you in a bit. Hopefully, you will be around long enough for the coronation.”
“I would say congratulations,” Erin said softly, “but I know this is not the way you wanted the throne.”
“No,” he said.
“It isn’t. Not by the death of my brother.”
“I had no time to offer my condolences,” she said.
“You were gone before I could. I’m sorry, Magnus.”
How did one apologise for a dead brother?
For every cruel thing fate had stacked on a man who had already endured enough?
Words were useless little things sometimes.
Magnus accepted it with a slight nod.
“Thank you.”
“Where did you go?”
he stepped closer.
His height towered over hers.
If Erin did not look up, she would be staring directly at his chest.
Which, unfortunately, was not the worst place to look.
“Why do you care all of a sudden?” he asked.
“I’m just making conversation.”
“Of course.” Magnus stepped back from her, slipping one hand into his pocket, then the other.
The movement loosened his coat, and the dark fabric fell open just enough to reveal the shirt beneath, fitted against the lean, hard frame she had somehow never allowed herself to notice.
Magnus was fine-boned, elegant.
Erin’s throat tightened.
These were things she had never noticed.
His hands.
Long fingers.
His shoulders.
His mouth.
His eyes.
Goddess, his eyes.
Green with shadows in them.
And then the worst realisation came.
She had not missed those things because they were hidden.
She had missed them because she had refused to look.
Not him.
She had been the most superficial woman to ever exist.
She had looked at Magnus and allowed the wheelchair to become the whole of him.
Carys had always been right.
He was magnificent.
He had been magnificent before.
But it pained Erin that it had taken betrayal from an asshole and Magnus standing straight for her to finally notice it.
Magnus turned toward the door.
“I’ll leave you to your morning routine.” His voice had gone polite again.
Erin watched him go.
“Magnus?”
He turned around, one eyebrow arched.
The look was very Magnus.
“I’m glad you can walk.” she said and meant it.
Not because of herself.
Not because his standing had rattled her brain and made her realise she had been blind in ways that had nothing to do with sight.
She meant it for him.
For the boy whose body had been turned into a battleground before he was old enough to understand pain.
For the man who had lost so much and still found room to be kind.
And for Blood City.
Because now, maybe, he could be more for his people.
Magnus nodded.
He simply accepted the words, turned, and walked out of the bedroom.
Moments later, Erin heard the front door close.
Silence returned.
Erin dropped backward onto the bed.
Her hair splayed across the mattress, wild and dark against the sheets.
She exhaled sharply.
“Moon Goddess…” she muttered to the ceiling, “if you are somewhere up there in silence… well played.”
Because honestly, what else could she call this?
She had spent years refusing Magnus.
She had thrown herself into Garrick.
Then Garrick had publicly chosen Lyra, Magnus now looked like sin itself.
The Moon Goddess was a petty bitch.
*****
Lyra waited by the fountain for Garrick to arrive.
She stood at the edge of the old fountain, watching water spill from the mouth of a carved wolf into the pool below.
The fountain had been here long before she was born, made of pale stone, its surface worn smooth by time.
Her father had always told her this was Queen Luna’s favourite spot.
Her father loved Mabel.
Their marriage was real.
But Queen Luna had occupied a place in Kyllian’s heart that no one touched.
Not even death had removed her from it.
Everyone knew.
Everyone accepted it.
That was the strange thing about great love.
Even when it did not belong to you, you learned to move around it.
Lyra had grown up hearing stories of Luna’s courage, her impossible heart, the way she loved her people so fiercely.
Kyllian had raised Lyra to be like her.
A ruler.
A woman who understood that the crown was not jewellery.
For the past few days, Lyra had asked herself one question over and over.
What would Queen Luna do?
The answer had been irritatingly clear.
Luna would have sacrificed love for her people.
Of course, Lyra had no great love to sacrifice.
She was not pining for someone forbidden.
She was not torn between passion and duty.
Still, Lyra loved her people.
She loved the soldiers.
The children.
The young wolves.
If marrying Garrick strengthened the army and steadied the kingdom, then she had to consider it.
Consideration was not stupidity which was why she had summoned him.
Garrick arrived in his commander’s uniform, and Lyra had to admit he wore power well.
The dark tactical fabric hugged his frame.
He looked every inch the hero the soldiers had chanted for.
Handsome.
Decorated.
And, quite possibly, full of shit.
He had fooled everyone.
Everyone.
Or perhaps not fooled them.
Perhaps he had simply shown each person the version of himself they most wanted to see.
To the soldiers, a brother in arms.
To the council, a strong consort for the future queen.
To Erin, a secret lover.
To Lyra, a respectful admirer.
She had always thought him honourable.