“I had her in my bed, so I think that says enough about my feelings.”
He hated the words, even as the temper, the sharpness … it was a relief, too.
Yrene sucked in a breath, but didn’t back down. “Yes, you had her in your bed, but I think she was likely a distraction, and was sick of it. Perhaps sick of being a consolation prize.”
His arms strained, the chair wobbling as he pushed and pushed upward, if only so he could stand long enough to glare into her face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She had not mentioned Aelin at all, hadn’t asked after last night’s dinner. Until—
“Did she pick Dorian, then? The queen. I’m surprised she could stomach either of you, given your history. What your kingdom did to hers.”
Roaring filled his ears as he began shifting his weight onto his feet, willing his spine to hold while he spat at her, “You didn’t seem to mind it one bit, that night at the party. I had you practically begging me.” He didn’t know what the hell was coming out of his mouth.
Her nails dug into his back. “You’d be surprised the people that opiate makes you consider. Who you’ll find yourself willing to sully yourself with.”
“Right. A son of Adarlan. An oath-breaking, faithless traitor. That’s what I am, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know—you rarely even attempt to talk about it.”
“And you are so good at it, I suppose?”
“This is about you, not me.”
“Yet you were assigned to me because your Healer on High saw otherwise. Saw that no matter how high you climbed in that tower, you’re still that girl in Fenharrow.” A laugh came out of him, icy and bitter. “I knew another woman who lost as much as you. And do you know what she did with it—that loss?” He could barely stop the words from pouring out, could barely think over the roar in his head. “She hunted down the people responsible for it and obliterated them. What the hell have you bothered to do these years?”
Chaol felt the words hit their mark.
Felt the stillness shudder through her body.
Right as he pushed up—right as his weight adjusted and knees bent, and he found himself standing.
Too far. He’d gone too far. He’d never once believed those things. Even thought them.
Not about Yrene.
Her chest rose in a jagged breath that brushed against his, and she blinked up at him, mouth closing. And with the movement, he could see a wall rising up. Sealing.
Never again. She’d never again forgive him, smile at him, for what he’d said.
Never forget it. Standing or no.
“Yrene,” he rasped, but she slid her arms from him and backed away a step, shaking her head. Leaving him standing—alone. Alone and exposed as she retreated another step and the sunlight caught in the silver starting to line her eyes.
It ripped his chest wide open.
Chaol put a hand on it, as if he could feel the caving within, even as his legs wavered beneath him. “I am no one to even mention such things. I am nothing, and it was myself that I—”
“I might not have battled kings and shattered castles,” she said coldly, voice shaking with anger as she continued her retreat, “but I am the heir apparent to the Healer on High. Through my own work and suffering and sacrifice. And you’re standing right now because of that. People are alive because of that. So I may not be a warrior waving a sword about, may not be worthy of your glorious tales, but at least I save lives—not end them.”
“I know,” he said, fighting the urge to grip the arms of the chair now seeming so far below him as his balance wavered. “Yrene, I know.” Too far. He had gone too far, and he had never hated himself more, for wanting to pick a fight and being so gods-damned stupid, when he’d really been talking about himself—
Yrene backed away another step.
“Please,” he said.
But she was heading for the door. And if she left …
He had let them all go. Had walked out himself, too, but with Aelin, with Dorian, with Nesryn, he had let them go, and he had not gone after them.
But that woman backing toward the door, trying to keep the tears from falling—tears from the hurt he’d caused her, tears of the anger he so rightfully deserved—
She reached the handle. Fumbled blindly for it.
And if she left, if he let her walk out …
Yrene pushed down on the handle.
And Chaol took a step toward her.
39
Chaol did not think.
He did not marvel at the sensation of being so high. At the weight of his body, the sway of it as he took that staggering step.
There was only Yrene, and her hand on the doorknob, and the tears in her furious, lovely eyes. The most beautiful he’d ever seen.
They widened as he took that step toward her.
As he lurched and swayed. But he managed another.
Yrene stumbled toward him, studying him from head to toe, a hand rising to cover her open mouth. She stopped a few feet away.
He hadn’t realized how much smaller she was. How delicate.
How—how the world looked and seemed and tasted this way.
“Don’t go,” he breathed. “I’m sorry.”
Yrene surveyed him again, from his feet to his face. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she tipped her head back.
“I’m sorry,” Chaol said again.
Still she did not speak. Tears only rolled and rolled.
“I meant none of it,” he rasped, his knees beginning to ache and buckle, his thighs trembling. “I was spoiling for a fight and—I meant none of it, Yrene. None of it. And I’m sorry.”
“A kernel of it must have been in you, though,” she whispered.
Chaol shook his head, the motion making him sway. He gripped the back of a stuffed armchair to stay upright. “I meant it about myself. What you have done, Yrene, what you are willing to still do … You did this—all this not for glory or ambition, but because you believe it is the right thing to do. Your bravery, your cleverness, your unfaltering will … I do not have words for it, Yrene.”
Her face did not change.
“Please, Yrene.”
He reached for her, risking a staggering, wobbling step.
She took a step back.
Chaol’s hands curled around empty air.
He clenched his jaw as he fought to remain upright, his body swaying and strange.
“Perhaps it makes you feel better about yourself to associate with meek, pathetic little people like me.”
“I do not …” He ground his teeth, and lurched another step toward her, needing to just touch her, to take her hand and squeeze it, to just show her he wasn’t like that. Didn’t think like that. He swayed left, throwing out a hand to balance him as he bit out, “You know I didn’t mean it.”
Yrene backed away, keeping out of reach. “Do I?”
He pushed forward another step. Another.
She dodged him each time.
“You know it, damn you,” he growled. He forced his legs into another jerking step.
Yrene sidled out of the way.
He blinked, pausing.
Reading the light in her eyes. The tone.
The witch was tricking him into walking. Coaxing him to move. To follow.
She paused, meeting his stare, not a trace of that hurt in them, as if to say, It took you long enough to figure it out. A little smile bloomed on her mouth.
He was standing. He was … walking.
Walking. And this woman before him …
Chaol made it another step.
Yrene retreated.
Not a hunt, but a dance.
He did not remove his eyes from hers as he staggered another step, and another, his body aching, trembling. But he gritted through it. Fought for each inch toward her. Each step that had her backing up to the wall.
Her breath came in shallow pants, those golden eyes so wide as he tracked her across the room. As she led him one foot after another.
Until her back hit the wall, the sconce on it rattling. As if she’d lost track of where she was.
Chaol was instantly upon her.
He braced one hand upon the wall, the wallpaper smooth beneath his palm as he put his weight upon it. To keep his body upright as his thighs shook, back straining.