What have I done?
What have I done?
The rest of the matching ceremony passed in the blink of an eye. She couldn’t have described a single moment had her life depended on it. No, Lyana couldn’t focus on anything except for her brother’s concerned gaze, her mother’s pointed stare, Damien’s seething wrath, her own mate’s chilling silence, and the question playing on a loop in the back of her mind.
What have I done?
Because the moment she looked at those lavender eyes, and at that face so strikingly similar to the one she’d expected yet so outrageously different, a chill had crept into her bones, deeper than anything she’d ever felt in her frozen tundra of a homeland.
Who was this imposter by her side?
Where was Lysander?
Where was her mate?
What have I done?
Lyana was numb as the courtship trials drew to a close. Her father spoke the traditional parting words, but her ears had stopped working, as though she’d dropped beneath the surface of her bath and all she could hear were muffled voices sifting through water, dull and far away. Everything was fuzzy. Everything was blurred. As she followed the ravens down the hall and out of the palace, a white speck in a mass of black, her thoughts were nothing but a silent buzzing, as though the panic were so overwhelming her body had simply shut down to avoid it.
The world came into sharp focus the second she stepped into their guest quarters. The second she saw him standing in the foyer, arms crossed, a foot resting against the wall, the picture of ease. The second her gaze landed on those clear eyes.
Lyana’s vision turned red.
Before she knew what she was doing, she crossed the length of the room and slapped his cheek as hard as she could, leaving a brilliant rosy mark on his pale skin. He clenched his jaw, refusing to look away, taking the full brunt of her glare but giving nothing in return. His expression was a study in control, not revealing a single emotion, as though he were made of stone.
Lyana hit him again—just because.
“Why weren’t you there?” she yelled, because her other option was a wailing that would sound far too vulnerable, far too hurt. Anger was much easier to manage. “Who are you? No, who are you?”
She flipped around, turning toward the man who had been at the ceremony. He was frozen in the doorway, crestfallen. A small woman nudged his shoulder, pushing him into the room. Then she closed the door behind them, locking the guards outside, leaving the five of them alone, including the queen.
“Someone tell me what’s going on, now,” Lyana commanded.
“I am Lysander Taetanus,” the man by the doorway said, taking a step closer as his onyx wings drooped low to the ground and his shoulders seemed to follow, hunched and uncertain. “I’m the real Lysander Taetanus.”
“But…” Lyana's voice trailed off as her eyes moved back and forth between the two Lysanders, nearly identical. Same jet-black hair. Same ivory skin. Same obsidian feathers. Same height. Similar builds, though one was clearly more muscular and one a little more slender. They were nearly twins.
Except for their eyes, she realized.
Her Lysander had slightly hooded eyes with irises the color of the sky on a perfect sunny day, daring her to explore the hidden depths beneath. But this new Lysander had slightly downturned eyes the color of lavender, honest and endearing, with no secrets lurking inside. And they matched the set on the queen’s face, which were a darker color but the same oval shape, with the same arched brows, the only feature on either man's face that looked like her at all.
Lyana stepped back as the air left her. Her wings beat, keeping her upright as she swayed, off balance.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured, trying to find her voice but losing it just as quickly. Her fingers trembled as her heart began to pound. A dizzying swarm of nerves fluttered deep in her stomach, shooting down her legs and up her arms, invading her mind, until she was light-headed yet grounded by her confusion.
The real Lysander lifted his arm, drawing her attention away from the nameless young man who had yet to move from the spot where she’d found him. He tugged on the end of each finger on his left hand, pulling off a polished leather glove, revealing smooth skin. Then he lifted his right hand and paused for a moment before he said, “I’m the Crown Prince of the House of Whispers. The man you met during the trials is my half brother. He took my place because, well— Because I— Because when I got my wings— Because—”
The prince broke off abruptly. The muscles in his right arm trembled. He released a heavy breath and in the same moment, wrenched the glove from his hand. The sound of threads ripping filled the small room.
Lyana gasped and stepped back, this time involuntarily.
For a second, she thought he’d ripped his fingers clean off and a spike of terror shot through her. But then the shock cleared, and she realized there was no blood, no gore, no mess, just smooth skin where a hand should have been. A deformity that had been there long before he’d ever laid eyes on her or her homeland.
Lyana glanced up.
The pain was written clearly across his face, in every groove of his forehead, in the way the muscle of his cheek spasmed, in the way he’d squeezed his eyes shut and angled his head toward the floor as though that would make him feel less exposed.
Lyana lifted her own hand, stretching it toward him, letting her fingers hover in the air. A warm wave of sympathy coursed through her, not because of the injury, but because of the raw ache emanating from him. The healer in her yearned to comfort him. The princess in her instantly understood why he’d done what he’d done. But the woman in her still reeled from the wounds he’d inflicted on her with his deception.
“I’m sorry to have tricked you, Lyana Aethionus,” the real Lysander whispered, voice raspy. “But I would still very much like to be your mate, if you’ll have me.”
At the word mate, her arm recoiled, dropping away from the prince. Her head turned, even as she tried to force it not to, and her attention landed on the stranger still leaning against the wall, the stranger who knew her darkest secret, the stranger in whose keeping she’d placed her wildest dreams—to live a life where she didn’t have to hide, a life with a mate who understood a part of her that no one else in the world ever could. Deep in her chest, that golden spark flared to life and sprinkled down her arms. Her magic. And the memory of her fingertips pressed against his skin, aglow in the firelight as his power rose to meet it, flared in her mind—a moment more intimate than any she’d experienced before. A moment that now brought a rotten, sour taste to her lips.
Lyana glanced at the floor, then turned to her mate.
“I’ll be in my rooms. No one is to enter except for my friend, who will be traveling with us to the House of Whispers come morning. Please, do not disturb me until my family arrives to bid their goodbyes. I would like to see them one more time before we leave.”
Her voice was iron.
Sharp as a dagger.
She didn’t wait to see if the tone struck true. She just snapped her wings and raced to the first rooms she could find, not caring whose they were, because now they were hers. The crystal wall gifted her with the perfect view of the palace she had until now called home. Lyana stared at it from the edge of the bed, unblinking. Her eyes burned, but the pain was a necessary distraction. She sat like that until the door opened and a familiar face slipped inside. Only then did she finally give in to the torrent of feeling crashing through her. Only then did she collapse and let the tears stream over her face. Because she knew Cassi’s steadfast arms were there to catch her.