Chapter
43

Cohen

A LINE WRINKLES BETWEEN HER PALE BROWS. Her lips tug down. Her hand pumps in and out of a fist. I recognize all her telling signs of frustration. They’re pieces of her that I know so well.

“He’s a good man,” I eventually say, grinding the words between my teeth, a reminder to myself more than a confirmation of Britta’s opinion. “I’m grateful for what he did to save you both.”

I’ve served King Aodren for a year and a half. While I wasn’t pleased with the way he led the country, I now know it wasn’t his fault. Phelia had taken over his mind. Since the king recovered from the Spiriter’s bind, he’s proved many times over that he’s a worthy leader. Saving my brother and Britta is one of those times.

I remind myself of this twice. Even then, I want to break his royal face. It chafes me, knowing he’s had a connection to Britta all this time. Bastard never said a word.

“Talk to me.” Britta’s fingers touch my back, and a tremor of need rolls through me. She’ll never realize how much she affects me.

“I don’t know what to say.” I turn around.

“Something, anything. Are you angry?”

Of course. But not with her. My fury is solely pointed at King Aodren. Behind Britta, the wind catches the snow on the barn’s roof and kicks some off. It’s a white veil picking up the morning light.

Because I’m a fool, I ask, “You care about him?”

Her chest rises and falls in a measured breath. “Cohen, I don’t want to hurt you. But I—I do. I care about him.”

Bloody stars. I spent the last couple of years fighting so hard for her, to keep her safe. Never imagined I’d lose her anyway.

I didn’t think she even liked the man.

Could her connection to King Aodren be the reason she’s been distant lately? How much does it affect her feelings for a person? Was the connection we once shared what swayed her feelings toward me? I scrub my eyes, hating the turn in my thoughts.

Concern parts her sea of freckles. Britta’s face has been in my dreams so often, it’s a fight not to wrap her in my arms and try to kiss our connection back to life. If only Channeler magic worked that way.

“What does this mean for us?” I dare to ask.

A snowflake catches on the pale fan of her lashes. I move to brush it away, but she does it first. “I—I don’t know. Can we not just be the same as we were before?”

But that’s just it. We aren’t how we were before.

“I don’t know, Dove. Last thing I want is to hurt you.” I fight the urge to mold my palm around her cheek. “I keep thinking that I’ve spent the last year and a half hunting for the king. While you—”

“While I what?” Her eyes narrow.

“You haven’t had the same opportunity to figure out what you really want. I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I just . . . all I’m saying is I’ve had my chance to figure this out.” I gesture between us.

Britta scoots back, her feet digging trails in the snow. “What does that mean?”

I swallow, somehow feeling older than the trees around us, older than the valley under our feet, older than the moon slipping out of the sky. “I’m not a perfect man. You know I’ve got buckets of flaws. I’m stubborn, reckless, and sometimes thoughtless . . . and I’ve hurt you deeper than any other man.” Her expression turns questioning, so I press on. “Thing is, I know exactly who and what I want. And that’s you. I know it when I wake in the morning. Know it when I fall asleep. You’re the first and last thing on my mind. Your name plays on every beat of my heart.”

Her frown softens.

“But I also know that I’m not necessarily what you might want anymore. Or need.” I shift my hand over my belt, feeling for the dove feather beneath. I hate every bit about what I’m going to say next, but it needs to be done. After all, my weakness is doing what’s best for Britta. Even if it pains me. Britta is loyal. Last thing I want is for that loyalty to lead her to misery. “I want you to figure out what you want, Britt.”

“Are you making me choose between you and my friendship with Aodren?” Her voice squeaks as she says this.

I tighten my fist over my belt pocket and draw a breath through my nose. “No, course not. I’m giving you space, to decide what you really want . . . who you really want. We always had the bond between us. Now that it’s gone, you should decide if you really want a life with me.”

“You think the bond is the reason I want to be with you?” She scoffs, blinking rapidly before dabbing her eye. She stomps away toward the barn, where Siron’s head pokes out of the door. Britta rubs his nose. “This entire conversation is ridiculous.”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “I hope I’m being a complete bludger, and one day when we’re old and hobbling around, we’ll laugh about this. But tell me this, Britt, have you ever considered the possibility that our connection influenced your feelings for me? Or that the years we spent together influenced you?” I cough, forcing myself to say this last bit. “There are other men out there. I need you to be certain that I’m the one you want. Faults and all.”

She opens her mouth. And for a second I’m praying a protest comes out. But it’s the hesitation, the space between heartbeats, that speaks the truth. “Consider it.”

She stalks away and my heart cracks.

The door slams behind her.

Cold and wet, I reach into my secret pocket and slide out the piece of parchment. I withdraw the gray-tinged feather. Wind kicks past the barn, scooting it right out of my hand. I suck in a short breath, gaze ricocheting around the yard in a desperate search.

But it’s gone.