I lost Daniel’s child, and my crystal never produced a song for Joso. Not only was I not barren, I was not chosen by those I chose.
The one person who had chosen me is dangerous.
Damn it all.
I rub my temples, feeling a headache coming on. I need to focus on my work.
For so long, everything inside me has felt like one or the other. All or nothing. Hope or despair. Love or rejection.
I don’t know what I want anymore. A family, yes. But… what about love?
For too long, my love has been measured by what men wanted from me—whether or not I was meeting their expectations. Arion only wants me because he believes I’ve never been with another.
Daniel wanted to waltz back in after everything.
Joso avoids me.
I can’t take it.
Estela watches me carefully. “Just say the word, and I won’t make you go,” she says.
I open my mouth. “I don’t…”
Then, footsteps sound behind us. They are heavy and measured. Familiar.
A deep, rumbling voice cuts through the tension.
"Queen Estela."
The sound filters across the now-crowded weaving hall.
Vann.
Silence follows his words. Every single person pauses then turns, watching as he moves through the rows. And despite the way I study his face, he never once looks at me.
Yet he commands the room.
The way he saunters into my work, my place, makes the rows of weavers watch him with equal parts awe, desire, and fear. He has never been a charming man—not by any stretch of the word—but he is a force.
A figure larger than life.
He holds people in place around him, like our planet holds the moon.
Which begs the next question: What the fuck is he doing here, and why does he look like he wants to set something on fire?
A clammy sweat covers my skin. Has he come to ask about the spider again?
"Lord Vann, what a surprise. Is something wrong with my mate?" Estela asks.
Vann bows before her, his gaze sweeping over the room with an intensity that makes my stomach tighten. He reaches into the cloak draped over his shoulders and pulls out a long white nightgown.
Mynightgown.
My spine locks straight, my breath catching in my throat. The gown soaked with Aradhlum blood.
No. Not here.
My pulse hammers. What is he doing? He opens his mouth, and before he can speak, I lunge forward, grabbing his wrist in a desperate, instinctive motion.