Whenever we were intimate, Midas never finished inside me. He never wanted to risk it. With his saddles, he was always more careless. I tried not to let it bother me, because I knew they all took something to prevent pregnancy. But me, he never wanted to give me that herb, said he wouldn’t risk me taking it after one of the saddles got really sick and died from it.
From my peripheral, I notice Hojat trade a look with the commander and say something quietly, but I’m too devastated to listen.
He slings the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and walks out of the tent, and as soon as the flaps close out the night air, I drop my head into my hands. My palms curl over my eyes, tears dropping into them like they’re slowly filling cups.
Cracks. So many cracks in the glass.
How did that happen? How did I get here, when I thought I’d never have to look through broken things again? So long as my reflection was with Midas, I thought it would always be whole and good and clear. And yet, these cracks keep appearing, keep splintering.
I know Midas has sex with all of his saddles. Hell, he shows it off. Having me watch, having me there like a silent bystander behind gilded bars. Maybe he thought of it as his way to include me, as warped as that seems.
I managed to quell the grieving hurt of it over the years, but this… Mist’s stomach is going to swell with a child she made with the man I love. How can I quell that?
The truth of it sinks in, lower and lower, like rough sediment at the bottom of a pond, sharp against bare feet, muddying up the water.
I always preferred to ignore it. To shove away all the bad and look at the good. But Mist being pregnant changes things fr
om lustful, meaningless liaisons to something else. Something more.
All of Mist’s hate makes so much more sense now.
In her eyes, I’m the woman he puts on a pedestal. She doesn’t just have to worry about the queen, but me too. And here she is, carrying his child.
Great Divine, what a mess.
I pick my head up, lashes stuck together with wet hurt, throat cinched tight. Rip is sitting on his pallet now, the low lighting of the coals and lantern pitching him in shadow and flame. A villain to spectate my stumbles.
Whatever was in that vial has already helped the itchiness in my throat, but the tightness in my chest, the feeling of the tent closing in on me, that isn’t going away, though it has nothing to do with my being sick.
“Go ahead,” I say, tone numb, eyes flat. “Go ahead and gloat. Drive your wedge between Midas and me. Make me question everything. Make me doubt and rage and flounder.”
I want to slap him. I want to let my ribbons come out and send him flying backwards. I want to fight and storm, just so I don’t have to feel this crushing grief.
The harsh planes of Rip’s cheekbones look even sharper right now, the pointed tips of his ears a stark reminder of what he is. My opponent. My enemy. A fae renowned for his cruelty. And right now, that’s exactly what I want.
“Do it,” I hiss, anger drowning out the urge to vomit.
Something flickers in his gaze, something I can’t quite place. “I don’t think I need to do any of that right now, Goldfinch,” he says quietly.
Fury rears up in me like a leviathan, its massive presence breaking the surface. “Fuck you,” I spit, acid spewing off my tongue that’s hot enough to burn away the chill on my soul. “You planned all of this, didn’t you? You’re manipulating me, every step of the way, making me question everything!”
My furious words end in a cough, but it doesn’t choke off my ire.
Rip shows no remorse on his face, no change in the black void of his eyes. “I find it funny that you so easily accuse me of manipulating you, when you seem to have turned a blind eye to your beloved king doing it for years.”
Before I even know what I’m doing, I’ve picked up the vial at my feet and chucked it at him.
His hand comes up, catching it with a smack against his palm.
“That’s not true!” I yell, hands going up to thread through my hair, pulling, like I can pluck out the vicious words from my skull.
“Stop lying to yourself,” he counters with infuriating calm.
I hate him in this moment more than all the rest combined.
“I bet it’s not even true,” I spit. “You made Hojat tell me that, didn’t you?”
“Powerful as I am, I don’t have enough bribes in the world to make Hojat lie. My mender is infuriatingly honest at times.”