Marianna
Blake can barely manage to walk the twelve feet to the bedroom door without needing to brace himself against the wall. I lunge for him but halt mid-step when a tall, broad, and honestly, impossibly handsome man in his mid-seventies barrels into the room looking downright murderous. His black hair is brushed away from his face, peppered with dark gray, but his silver eyes are sharpened and honed on Blake as he braces his hands on the doorframe and scans Blake, then the room, and… softens when he sees me standing in outright terror only a few feet away.
I know him. Not personally, of course, but it’s impossible not to know of the ever feared, ever worshipped, Alpha King Ryatt–The King of Shadows, of darkness. The King of The Roguelands and the mystical, secretive Veiled Valley that he passed down to his daughter.
Blake sways but manages to keep himself upright as he stretches a hand toward Ryatt in what I can only describe as surrender. “Ryatt, not now.”
“You’re Marianna, then?” Ryatt’s voice is nearly as deep and dry as Blake’s.
I nod, give him a quick, unsteady bow, and refuse to meet his eyes again. I look down at my feet, noticing the way his shadow moves throughout the room despite the fact that he’s standing still.
“Where is Maeve?” Ryatt asks sternly.
“She’s with–she’s in the western wing of this floor, in a suite with–with Skye–”
“The daughter you hid from the family for seven years?”
I bite my lower lip, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Kenna can’t keep a secret to save her life, can she?” Blake rasps, but Ryatt isn’t even remotely entertained.
“You and I have to talk, Blake. When you’re well. Marianna, come with me, please.”
My stomach falls to my toes. I take a short step in his direction, keeping my head down, but Blake stops me, grabbing my hand and straightening to his full height, his shoulders squared.
Ryatt arches a brow at Blake, chuckles low, and rolls his eyes–which makes him look entirely casual, not like the demon from my worst nightmares that manifested in the doorway only moments ago.
“Fine. We’ll do this now. Can you walk, Blake, or should I spirit you across the castle?”
Blake doesn’t say a word. He tugs me along, and Ryatt has to move out of our way. Blake’s suite is a blur as I follow him through the hallways of gray modernity, and I can feel the tension pouring off of him. He doesn’t have privacy here, not at all. I feel suddenly defensive about it, wondering why his family thinks they have a right to him at any given moment of the day or night.
But one look at him tells me everything I need to know about how he’s lived while we were separated. Everything he’s done, everything he refused to give himself–whether that be peace, privacy, or even a moment to think without the voices in his head running wild–it was for others.
Blake has never lived a single day in his life just for himself, and it guts me.
I squeeze his hand, sending a caress through the fine threads of our bond, praying he can feel what I feel… grateful for everything he’s ever done for me, for Skye, and honestly, for them–this strange family I’m suddenly, inexplicitly a part of.
Skye is where I left her this morning while Blake was still in his stupor–sitting in a bed, surrounded by her beloved stuffed animals, gripping one of those crystal spheres like her life depends on it. Her eyes don’t even lift when the three of us walk into the room, but Maeve rises from an armchair near a window overlooking the city, Fallon bright and fully awake in her arms.
I flinch when Ryatt steps past me, bracing myself for him to launch into an attack on my daughter, but I’m rocked to my core when the most feared man in the Allied Kingdoms absolutely melts as he leans down to smile at his… great-granddaughter, Fallon. My shoulders slump as relief washes through me. I feel… awful, honestly, as I look around the room. Sarah is here, too, quietly rearranging flowers in a vase on a dresser along the far wall. She glances over her shoulder, giving me a tight, but encouraging, smile, and Sydney, who I thought had left for Crescent Falls, lingers in the corner with my mom, his head bent in quiet conversation.
They’re not bad people. Just… somewhat scary, powerful, magical people.
And then there’s me… powerless, Normal. Maybe even… boring?
I release my grip on Blake and sit beside Skye on the bed, pulling her into my lap. She doesn’t fight it but doesn’t relax. When I lean my chin on her shoulder, I feel her take a deep breath, her little body trembling as she exhales. She’s exhausted but too scared to fall asleep. This has happened before–horrible nightmares. Mom and I used to take turns staying awake with her during the nights when she refused to shut her eyes until the memories of those dreams faded from her mind.
Ryatt finally turns from Fallon to look around the room, and his gaze falls on Skye. He inspects her from afar, his expression gentle, curious, and with a deep breath, he turns to Blake, letting it out in a whoosh. “Your grandfather and I have placed wagers on which of you kids was going to send us into early graves, and I believe he might leave this realm before me at this rate. He thought he had me beat with Maeve’s situation.”
“Ryatt!” Sarah hisses, narrowing her eyes at him.
Maeve scoffs, scooping Fallon against her shoulder. “Excuse me?”
Sydney smirks, but Sarah looks wildly between the group before her mouth twitches into a smile that shatters the earlier tension. I run my fingers through Skye’s hair, watching the family break into lifted, animated arguments that seem completely unserious, but Blake… he’s not messing around right now. He looks beyond fatigued, his skin an icy, unhealthy gray. He says, under his breath, “What’s our next move?” directing his words at Maeve, who purses her lips for a moment, brows pinched in thought.
“Obviously, it depends on what you’ve seen,” Maeve replies pointedly.
Blake braces himself on the bed before sitting down near my feet. He curls his fingers around my ankle almost absently, like I’m an anchor in the storm going on inside his head, and then he lays it all out for the family, who listens quietly, intently, no one daring to so much as breathe.
“Fae?” Ryatt says after at least twenty minutes of Blake’s explanation. “I’ve never heard that word before.”
“They spoke of our old gods, our old kings, saying they were one in the same,” Blake concludes, closing his eyes. “Hannibal has… wings.”
“Wings?” Maeve narrows her eyes.
Blake nods. “And some kind of a magical shield that can keep them hidden. I’m not sure.”
“I’ll have Misty and Arthur look into it,” Ryatt says before taking Fallon out of Maeve’s arms with practiced grace. Fallon looks incredibly small tucked in the crook of his elbow. “Where’s Soren?”
Maeve’s expression withers with discomfort as she eyes her grandfather. “Why?”
Ryatt gives her a sharp look. “You know why.”
“We’ll talk about that later.” She hisses and then moves like the wind toward the door. “He’s downstairs sparring with the warriors, from what I understand. He needed to blow off some steam.” She glances at her mom before leaving the room, and Ryatt follows, shutting the door behind him.
Sarah rises from her chair and clears her throat. “Isaac and Maddy have extended an enthusiastic invitation for Marianna, Leona, and Skye to come to Maatua for a while. I think it would be wise, given the circumstances.”
My spine straights as I glance at Blake, who’s staring at the far wall, his back to his parents. “Not yet.”
Sarah shrugs a shoulder and turns to Sydney. “Lunch, then? Leona, we know a beautiful little restaurant on the lake. You should join us.”
Mom gives her a soft smile and a nod in reply, but one look at her face tells me all I need to know. This is… way out of our league. We’re normal people. People who go to the grocery store and fret over bills. Not… royals.
“Mom, I need you to come to the orrery with us tomorrow–Skye and me.” Blake squeezes my ankle but isn’t looking at me when he says, “Anna, I don’t know if…. If you want to come, please do, but–”
“I’ll stay behind,” I rush out, tightening my grip on Skye. “That place gives me the creeps, anyway.”
Sydney, to his credit, nods knowingly and turns for the door, motioning to his mate. Mom follows them out, and the room falls into silence again. Skye is just… staring at Blake, however, her eyes wide and round, the same brilliant shade of violet as his.
“Let’s go walk around the garden,” I offer to my poor, forlorn, exhausted mate and daughter, but after waiting several seconds for a reply, neither so much as blinks. “All right… a nap, then. You both could use it.” I slowly untangle myself from Skye. She doesn’t fight when I scoop her up, bunch the blankets down, and tuck her in a little nest of warmth. Blake, barely lucid on the edge of the bed, simply leans back until his spine is flat against the mattress, and within seconds of me pulling the curtains closed against the sunlight, they’re asleep.
I leave the room without even looking over my shoulder.
Skye is safest with him. I feel it in my bones. I don’t let myself feel that twang of grief that I’ve lost a special part of Skye–the sacred bond I shared when it was just me and her.
This is better. This is better for all of us, Blake included.
With nothing to do, I wander the castle. I explore the library, the sunroom on the second floor, and eventually find myself chatting with a maid in the gallery while she shows me portraits of the family I’ve never seen before.
“That’s my mate’s parents,” Ryatt’s voice says somewhere behind me. I whirl, surprised. I didn’t even hear him come in. The maid bows low before scurrying out of the wide, echoing room that stretches nearly three stories high to a domed ceiling with an ancient mural painted across it. “Isla and Maddox.”
I turn from him. He’s still holding Fallon, and that makes me slightly more comfortable being alone with this man–this all powerful creature I can barely wrap my mind around. I look up at the portrait, at the perfect strokes of paint that make it look more like a photograph than a painting. Isla is middle-aged but gorgeous, looking so much like Misty it makes my heart skip a few beats as I scan the blue eyes, the soft glowing skin, and glorious golden hair they’re known for.
Maddox, however, is a startling image of Blake, but his eyes are deep green, and his hair is more brown, with no tinges of the dark, wine red Skye has inherited from her father.
But Maddox… yeah. His genetics are strong–stronger than Isla’s, I’m afraid. So many of his ancestors carry his high, strong cheekbones. His wide mouth. His regal, straight nose.
“Did you know them well?” I ask Ryatt, who nods, smiling gently as he steps to my side.
“It was a rocky start, to say the least, but they came around. Maddox and I spent a great deal of time together over the years before his death. I miss them, admittedly. My mate, Ella, she painted these.”
“She did?”
“Oh, yes. She’s brilliant.” He scans the wall where more paintings are hung in thick, golden frames. “This one is one of my favorites.” He points to a painting of a fox in a dark, treelined clearing. The fox guards a felled… beast of some sort, while the fox glows from within, her eyes orbs of swirling gold. “That’s Amanda. You’re likely to meet her and her insanely large family the longer you spend time here. She’s Ella’s best friend and the mate of… my best friend.”
Ryatt takes me to the gallery, painting his own picture of a long life lived, of adventures, of war and peace.
But it’s a smaller portrait of a group of boys that catches my attention.
“No way,” I laugh. “That’s Blake?”
“Yes.” Ryatt smiles, shaking his head. “Blake was the first boy of the generation–of the grandkids. Hard to believe he used to be as small as Fallon.” His voice is wistful with memories that swirl just behind his silver eyes. “He was the leader of the group until Brie took over her rightful place and dethroned him. She’s only a bit older. That’s Aris, the blond one, and Liam, and the baby is Adrian, Misty and Cole’s son. He was probably one or two in this; I can’t remember. We’re only missing Noah in this one.”
The portrait beside it is the girls of the generation–Brie, likely around Skye’s age, standing stoically behind Maeve, who’s grinning like a little demon while a pair of twins with blonde hair, I assume Blake’s sisters, Briar and Celeste, sit in front of them.
“Josie was born about a week after Ella completed this painting,” he says, dreamlike. “It feels like so long ago.” He moves a few feet away, carefully adjusting Fallon’s weight in his arms. “Ella will want a portrait of you and Skye to add to the collection. She’s already planning it out.”
My heart squeezes as I scan the wall of family–family belonging to my daughter.
Family that belongs to me, now.
Family Blake is willing to die for, to do… anything for.