Chapter 3
I lie in bed, trying not to think about anything.
Not about my brother flying across a continent and an ocean. Not about the army down in the valley. Not about the invaders.
I lie on my side, and I look at the ring on my left hand. The gold band looks dark in the eleven o’clock hour, the diamonds only shine a little, and the center emerald looks pitch black.
But here, on my finger, is the symbol of the one bit of happiness I have right now.
The bed dips and then there’s a warm body spooning up to mine as Cyrus lies behind me. He wraps one arm around my middle, pulling me in tight to him.
But I keep looking at my ring, letting a moment of happiness and relief spread through me.
“Tell me about the wedding you always dreamed about as a girl,” Cyrus breathes into my ear. “Tell me all the details so I can bring it to reality for you, Logan.”
I smile. Just the sound of his voice sends waves of goosebumps washing over my skin. His nearness sends electricity cascading down my body.
“Would you believe me if I said I never did have any kind of wedding fantasy?” I ask.
“No,” he says with a smile in his voice. “I don’t know that I would.”
I laugh, continuing to study the facets of my emerald. “It’s true. I never had any grand ideas about my dress, or where the location would be, the flowers.” I roll back toward him a bit so that I can look into his dark eyes. “The groom.”
Cyrus takes my hand and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the ring he placed on my finger only a few days ago.
“I could marry you in the grossest strip club in Vegas, wearing jeans and a ripped t-shirt, and it would be exactly what I want, Cyrus,” I say. “Because you’d be there, wanting to marry me for some insane reason.”
When the words come out, I realize how much I have changed in the time I’ve met this man. Just four months ago I never would have said that sentence. I could never have lain here, so vulnerable and open and honest. My bitter heart just couldn’t be real like that.
Yes, I have multiple other people in my head now, the memories of eight dead queens.
But I think people evolve when they become one like Cyrus and I have.
They change.
For the two of us, I feel like it has been into the better versions of ourselves.
“You may not have any imaginings of the day, my love,” Cyrus says, leaning in just a little closer, studying my eyes. “But I have thought about the day for weeks now. The day you will be my bride.”
The word sends a thrill through me. It’s scary. That’s for damn sure. Because—me? A bride? It’s so real. So binding.
“I have thought about you in a white dress, Logan,” Cyrus whispers, leaning in. He teases his lips along my jaw. “I have thought about those two words slipping past your lips.” He presses a soft kiss to my skin, and I barely even hear the words I do as my eyes slip closed and my body sparks to life. “I have thought about a ring on my own finger, the first I will have ever worn.”
His kisses slip, beginning to trail down my neck. “I have thought about the night alone that will follow,” he purrs as he kisses his way down my neck. My back arches and I roll as he shifts on top of me. My right knee falls to the side, inviting him between my legs. “I have thought about this skin.” He nips my neck just a little with his teeth. “I have thought about every inch of it.”
My hands rise up, finding the hem of his shirt. My hands slip underneath. His skin is warm, covered in goosebumps.
It’s agony. I’m touching him. I’m here in this bed with him, breathing the same air, hearing the words I crave. But it’s not enough.
It’s not enough.
Cyrus’ hand goes to my thigh, sliding up until he slips over my hip, and then to the hem of my own shirt. His rough hand caresses my stomach. And finally his fingers hook on the edge of my bra, lingering.
“I have fantasized about every inch of your skin, Logan,” Cyrus whispers into my ear, his lips teasing the skin there.
I wrap my legs around his waist, and I feel like I’m in pain, I want every part of him so bad. That little decision that I never gave clear acknowledgement to in the back of my brain, the one to wait until after the wedding, shatters to pieces, evaporating into the air.
But through the night, a shout cuts through the dark. Followed by another.
We’re both on our feet in a fraction of a second, looking out the window.
There’s fighting down in the streets. The people yell, no, scream, at one another. I see one man swing at another. I see fangs bared. I see brilliant red eyes.
There’s a group of ten surrounded by a crowd of nearly a hundred. They back down the road, toward the lake.
There are others that look cornered.
There’s so much screaming.
So much fighting.
Through the stairways and halls Cyrus and I bolt and not a minute later, we plow through the front gates.
The shouting and sounds of fighting intensify.
Cyrus grabs a woman as she runs by, nearly knocking her off her feet. “What is going on?”
Her expression is livid and she doesn’t even look at Cyrus, she’s in such a rush to get back into the thick of things. “More than thirty of us have decided they want to side with Lorenzo,” she says. “They’re trying to leave the city.”
More than thirty.
I see Cyrus’ expression slacken and he loosens his grip on the woman, who instantly darts back to the fight.
That’s…that’s nearly ten percent of the residents of Roter Himmel.
After everything, after this entire interrogation with the army, there are still so many who have decided to turn away from us.
As I turn to the fight once more, I realize it isn’t just a fight.
It’s a painful betrayal. A turning of backs.
It’s pleading and begging.
These are their family members. Their friends.
This is Roter Himmel being torn apart after centuries of bonds and relationships.
The loyalists will fight.
But can they kill?
Do I want them to?
I clutch my hands to my chest, feeling my heart being shredded.
How can we ever survive this? How will our world ever, ever look the same after all of this conflict? After all this splitting?
Your world will never look the same.
The man who beheaded Cyrus had said those words. And he was absolutely right.
My world has come to an end as I knew it.
Two individuals break free from the crowd, and with a speed that is nearly invisible to the eye, they dart out across the valley.
Another five follow suit.
I realize that they didn’t just escape.
My people let them go.
The group of ten makes a break for it, and they’re chased, but only for so long.
Neither Cyrus nor I do anything about it, as over the next ten minutes, we watch the loyalists drive the deserters out of Roter Himmel.
I count every one of them as they leave us.
Fifteen.
Twenty-four.
Thirty-two.
And then the town turns quiet. Faces grow solemn.
They all turn toward the castle instinctually, and every one of their eyes falls to us, none of them knowing what to do now that thirty-two of us have turned their backs.