It was a tentative link founded in confusion.
Aflora hadn’t understood my motives or my purpose, just as I hadn’t fully grasped her desires in life. But a few weeks together had opened our eyes to a whole new world of existence, one where our goals learned how to intertwine and grow as a unit rather than as separate strands.
My sweet little star had fused us together, tied our roots together at the source of our beings and ensured we were forever bound.
In essence, she’d captured my heart. I wasn’t sure how or when it had happened. Perhaps in our childhood. Perhaps during that first dream when she demanded I please her without even asking my name. Perhaps when she fought me in my bedroom shortly after waking up.
Perhaps she’d always owned me.
I rolled onto my side to more properly face her, preferring to admire her over the starry night. Tucking my arm beneath my head, I placed my other hand on her abdomen, my pinky sliding beneath the fabric of her tank top to stroke the warm skin below it.
She didn’t move, her eyes holding mine while we continued to stare at each other.
No words.
Just the sound of the perpetual night and the slight rustle of leaves and flowers, responding to the queen among them.
Her eyelashes fanned over her cheekbones as she blinked, her gorgeous features captivating my full attention.
I could gaze upon her for hours and never tire of it.
She possessed so much power and strength, the source’s mark properly marking her as royalty. Cerulean ribbons glowed in her dark hair, lighting up her features and proclaiming her as my mate. I lifted my hand away from her stomach to draw my fingers through her soft strands, smiling as her energy kissed my skin.
“You’re so beautiful that it almost hurts,” I marveled, completely consumed by her and the vitality pouring off of her. I drew my thumb along her jaw, my touch instinctively reverent. “I know you’re worried about the trials and marrying your power sources, but you were born for this, little star.”
Her confidence continued to waver through our bonds.
It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in herself so much as she questioned whether or not this was the right path.
“You grew up being told that abominations are evil,” I continued softly. “I grew up knowing that abominations can do good, too. Look at the Academy around us. This is here because of Zen, who by all rights is an abomination herself, and she worked with Lucifer, the equivocal king of abominations, to create it. Does it feel wrong here? Evil? Dark? Nefarious? Or do you sense the life and love in this paradigm like I do?”
Similar sensations existed in my own paradigm, the one I created for those who favored retribution. But beneath that life had been a sense of anger and resentment toward other fae.
What I felt here was an underlying promise, a true sense of purpose for the future.
No violence or desire for bloodshed.
Just a desire to learn and work together.
A show of unity—something I hoped would be useful to Aflora later on.
“Peace,” she whispered. “They feel at peace here. Protected. Safe. Like they can be themselves without worrying about punishment for doing so.”
I nodded. “Because they’re allowed to be themselves here. Abominations who just want to live, not fight. And it’s not just within this paradigm, Aflora. You’re picking up on it from the Hell Fae, too. They’re a race of beings who have been shunned for so long, they built their own society to escape the others.”
“Some of them are angry,” she said softly. “I feel their ire like a weight against my soul. But others are just tired. They want to be accepted.”
“And you can help them in that quest,” I told her, my thumb tracing her cheekbone on my way to fondling her hair once more. “Being an abomination doesn’t make one evil, little star. The soul is corrupt with or without power. Constantine is proof of that. He’s a Midnight Fae who will destroy anyone and everything that stands up to his methodology for order. Hell, he took an inclusive council that worked positively together and turned them against their own hearts—the women who are the true figureheads.”
It was despicable and wrong and so expertly crafted that I couldn’t help developing a smidgen of respect for the bastard.
My father used to tell me that admiring one's enemies was to understand and never underestimate them.
I understood that now.
And I would never underestimate Constantine again.
“Constantine succeeded because he knew what weakness to exploit,” I continued. “Emotion. What we need to do is show him how powerful emotion can be, by demonstrating how powerful our bonds are together.”