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DESDEMONA BURROWED deeper beneath the large fur pelt offering her warmth, and smiled. The clinging talons of drowsiness kept her floating as if she were in a dream. But, the very solid presence of Malachi beside her was quite real. And thank goodness for that, or she might be afraid to open her eyes and find that it had all really been some cruel dream.
“Good morning,” Malachi murmured, his voice deep and booming in the quiet wood.
Turning over to face him, she smiled. He was adorable first thing in the morning, with his wild curls framing his face in disarray, his eyes drooping. A rough thatch of hair covered his jaws, seeming to have appeared overnight.
“Hello,” she whispered.
Behind him, the sun cast its rays through the window, its brightness causing the winter white world beyond it to glow.
“Are you ready to return?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
With a sigh, she burrowed against him, resting her head against his warm chest. “Do we have to?”
He laughed, the sound warming her heart. “Right this second? Perhaps not. Eventually, yes.”
Peering up at him, she smiled. “I suppose you’re right. Duty calls. But, it was nice to pretend for a night, wasn’t it? That we’re the only two people in the world.”
Reaching up, he brushed a stray lock of hair back from her face. “Yes, it was. But Mollac needs their queen. I am content to share you with them.”
“Promise me, that when this war is over, you’ll steal me away as often as you can,” she murmured.
He placed a kiss upon her forehead. “I promise. This cabin will always be our place, and whenever I think you need time away, I’ll simply throw you over my shoulder and carry you here.”
“How bold of you not to ask my permission,” she teased, sitting up and reaching for her clothes. “I’d have any other man beheaded for such impertinence.”
Grasping her shoulders, he lowered his head to kiss her cheek. “But I’m not just any man.”
“No,” she agreed, her lips curving into a smile as she pulled her shift on over her head, “you are not.”
They got dressed in silence, and then worked together to set the cabin to rights. Malachi smothered the last embers of the fire he’d started in the hearth, while Desdemona folded and replaced the furs they’d slept on and under. As pleasant as their night away from everything had been, Desdemona was anxious to get back to the task of liberating Mollac. There were three other villages still crawling with her mother’s minions, and they needed to press on.
“Are you ready?” Malachi asked once they’d finished.
Taking up her cloak, she fastened it around her neck and grasped his offered hand. “Yes, I suppose.”
Casting one last mournful glance back into the cabin, Desdemona hoped too much time would not pass before they could return. Malachi closed the door behind them, then released her hand. Taking a few large steps away from her, he swiftly shifted into his animal form—growing and morphing before her eyes in the span of a few seconds. Lowering himself onto his belly, he issued a huff and inclined his head, waiting for her to mount.
She approached his side, reaching down to caress the soft, thick fur blanketing his massive shoulder. Then, she swiftly swung herself up onto his back, taking large fistfuls of his hair into her hands and holding tight. He had assured her that it did not hurt for her to hold him this way.
Once he seemed satisfied that she was secure, he stood up on four legs and began barreling across the snow drifts, back toward Snowbank.
Allowing the hood of her cloak to fall away, Desdemona raised her face up toward the morning sun. She reveled in the kiss of the cold morning air and the light of the sun breaking through the clouds. The thrill of the ride brought her joy, as did the wind in her hair, and the scent of roses blooming here and there.
The ride ended far too quickly, and before long Snowbank came into view. Malachi paused at the top of the same hill they’d stood upon the day before, and allowed her to dismount. He swiftly transformed back to two legs, and stood behind her, staring down at the village.
From this distance, she could detect the movement of people between cottages—small dark shapes moving against the pristine white snow. Everything appeared to be as it should, yet Desdemona could not ignore the sudden thought that something was terribly wrong.
She could feel Malachi’s gaze upon her, his brow knit with concern. Her hands began to tremble, and even clenching them into fists couldn’t stop it.
“Des, what’s wrong?” Malachi asked. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice suddenly gone hoarse. “Something’s terribly wrong. I ...”
Her legs suddenly began to move, and before Desdemona realized it, she’d begun running toward the village. Taking hold of her skirts, she held them above her ankles, kicking up clumps of snow as she ran, her cloak trailing behind her like a banner in the wind.
As she drew closer to Snowbank, she realized why something had seemed off. While there were people in the village, there hadn’t been enough movement. The stillness unnerved her.
Coming near the cottage where she had met Roimas and his family, she stumbled to a stop, her breath coming out on a cry of dismay at what she found.
Littering the ground here and there, lay bodies. Many of them were contorted in a way that left her certain that they were not merely unconscious. They had been dismembered, broken, and tortured, left to die in the snow.
Tears filled her eyes as she turned left and right, searching for answers. Beyond the cottage, she found a group of Warrior Fae conversing with one of her royal guards.
“Mindirra!” she cried out, recognizing her head bodyguard.
The Fox Shifter spun to face her, eyes going wide. She exhaled noisily, as if with relief, before rushing forward to meet her. Malachi appeared at her side at the same moment that Mindirra halted in front of her.
“Your Majesty!” she called out. “Thank the gods, you are all right!”
“Of course, I’m all right,” she insisted. “What has happened here?”
Mindirra frowned, gesturing toward the bodies, which Desdemona could see more of farther into the village. Among them lay residents of Snowbank, interspersed with fallen Minotaurs and the silvery dust of the Dark Fae taken down by iron weapons. A fight had occurred here in her absence.
“Reinforcements, my queen,” Mindirra answered. “We believe word traveled of your victory here, and the enemy regrouped. They attacked in the night while we slept. By the time we realized what was happening, they had killed several. We were able to rout them, but a few survived to retreat farther west. I would not put it past them to strike again, and soon.”
Disbelief rippled through her, and her stomach churned violently, causing her to feel as if she might retch right there in front of everyone.
“I ... I don’t understand,” she stammered, pressing a hand to her middle.
“When you did not emerge to fight amongst us, we assumed the worst,” Mindirra replied. “I am glad you’re all right.”
Malachi’s hands came up to rest on her shoulders in a comforting gesture, but Desdemona could hardly feel them. She couldn’t feel anything past the mind-numbing rage and despair roiling in her gut and threatening to spill out of her in an explosion of flames.
“How long ago was it?” she asked. “How long since they attacked?”
“Three hours by my guess, not long before sunrise,” Mindirra replied. “We fought them off, and have now turned our attention to tending the dead. We thought it wise not to pursue those retreating. Without you here to give your orders, we thought to wait. But as more time passed ...”
Desdemona nodded, understanding perfectly what Mindirra said and did not say. Three hours ago, she’d been happy, lying in Malachi’s arms in a cabin in the woods, oblivious to all else. Meanwhile, the people she had vowed to protect were being savaged by the enemy, many dying in the process.
She hadn’t been there to fight amongst her warriors, or defend the defenseless. She hadn’t been there to offer guidance, or lead those who followed her.
As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, Malachi turned her to face him.
“Des, look at me.”
She raised her gaze to meet his and felt her chin begin to tremble. “Malachi ... what have I done?”
He shook his head, tightening his hold on her shoulders. “Do not blame yourself for the actions of others. You cannot control the evil that exists in this world, nor can you avoid it when it strikes.”
“But I can fight!” she cried, shrugging out of his hold. “I can protect the people who are looking to me to be their queen!”
“You have done that,” he argued, keeping his voice low, even though by now several people had heard them.
She was making a scene, but couldn’t seem to control the emotions threatening to burst through her skin and tear her to pieces.
“Not well enough,” she whispered. “I should have been here.”
“But they might still have—”
“I should have been here!” she bellowed.
Malachi fell silent, snapping his mouth shut as if he’d been about to speak but thought better of it. Fighting to control her breathing, Desdemona closed her eyes and attempted to swallow past the bile burning in her throat.
The sound of someone sobbing nearby stole her attention, and she turned toward it, seeking out the source. The cries of a heart being broken, she realized. Brushing past Mindirra, she found the form of a woman crouching near one of the bodies.
As she drew closer, her throat seized at the sight of a slight body held in the arms of a woman.
A child. She wept over the body of her slain child.
Dropping to her knees beside the female, Desdemona recognized the Fox Shifter and choked back a sob. It was Merta, Roimas’ mate. The mate of the man who had welcomed her to Snowbank and thanked her for liberating them. In her arms laid Henfas, dried blood staining his temple and coating his hair. His face was whiter than the snow, his lips startlingly blue in contrast.
“My son,” Merta wept, rocking back and forth as she clung to the boy, clutching him tight against her chest. “My son ... my son.”
Desdemona reached out, placing a trembling hand on the boy’s head. Startled, as if she hadn’t noticed Desdemona approach, Merta glanced up at her with wide, red-rimmed eyes. She sobbed, glancing from Desdemona, back down to the child.
“Roimas?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice level.
Merta met her gaze again and shook her head, letting out another sob. “He was one of the first cut down. Ran out to meet them along with several others, the foolish man. Said he was tired of cowering and hiding, and that it was time to fight. If you could do it, so could he.”
No. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. She was supposed to protect them.
Another tear splashed her face as she reached her free hand up to touch Merta’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking as a sob tried to force its way up into her throat. “I am so very sorry.”
Merta nodded, but fell silent, saying nothing else as she went on holding and rocking her son.
Rising to her feet, Desdemona removed her cloak, gently laying it over Merta’s shoulders. She didn’t want to attempt tearing the woman away from her son’s body.
Turning away, she found Mindirra and Malachi standing there, watching her expectantly. They were waiting for her to act ... to tell them what to do. But she couldn’t think beyond the fury that had begun taking over the grief. She latched onto it and allowed it to grow, finding it far preferable to the pain of sadness. The rage fed the fire within her, until she was bursting into flames, surrendering to the one urge she could rely on to make this right. The urge to hunt, destroy, and kill.
“Your Majesty, where are you going?” Mindirra called out, cupping her hands to be heard as Desdemona spread her wings and began to ascend.
Her only reply was a screech, which echoed through the morning as she spewed fire. She flew west; in the direction the attackers had retreated.
Perhaps they would understand and follow to aid her. But, Desdemona did not need them to. She had enough rage and fire for every single minion of Queen Eranna, with plenty to spare for the woman whose evil could not continue to go unchecked.
––––––––
MALACHI TRUDGED UP the winding staircase of the castle, exhaustion sapping the strength from his very bones. The sun had just begun to rise, but he hadn’t slept since the night before. Those blissful hours spent with Desdemona in his cabin now seemed so distant that he was hard-pressed to remember that it had only been twenty-four hours.
After returning to Snowbank to find that Eranna’s underlings had retaliated, Desdemona had flown off in the direction of Moville, a village lying to the south of Snowbank. Watching her fly away, Malachi had known exactly what she intended once she arrived there.
“She wants us to follow,” he had said, turning to Mindirra and the other royal bodyguards.
In truth, he had no idea what Desdemona wanted, but he would be damned if he allowed her to go running off after the enemy alone. She might be one of the most powerful beings in existence, but she was not invincible. She’d been killed twice already, and Malachi would not risk losing her only to find she might not rise again.
And so, he and Mindirra had gathered Desdemona’s forces, leaving twenty of the Warrior Fae behind to guard Snowbank. They’d traveled overland as fast as their legs would carry them, using the bright splash of Desdemona’s wings against the sky as a beacon.
They’d overtaken Eranna’s soldiers on the outskirts of Moville, and eradicated them. Desdemona had torched at least half of them by the time they arrived, while Malachi and Eli led the others in slaughtering the rest.
From there, they progressed into the village, where Desdemona repeated her performance from Snowbank—driving away the guards keeping the town under siege, and bringing the people out of imprisonment. However, this time she neglected to remain for the celebration.
Taking to the sky once more, she continued east toward the village of Baelmir. Leaving yet another force of Warrior Fae behind to protect Moville, they followed.
They continued that way for what remained of the day, travelling from village to village, and leaving a trail of fire, ash, and blood in their wake. Desdemona was tireless, refusing to take a rest, food, or drink, until she had visited each of Mollac’s towns herself and ensured that Eranna’s forces had been driven out.
When they returned to Semran Hall, only Desdemona, Malachi, Eli, Mindirra, and the queen’s royal bodyguard remained in their party. The Warrior Fae had been broken into units and left behind to oversee the rebuilding effort of each village. They would offer protection and send word if a threat too large for them to handle arose.
Only when the last village had been secured did Desdemona seem satisfied. Even still, she remained tense and silent the entire journey back to Semran Hall. The castle’s new kitchen staff had a meal prepared for them upon their return, so they had all sat at the new rough, wooden tables that had been erected in the great hall to eat. During the meal, Desdemona merely picked at her food, pushing the offerings on her plate back and forth with her fork. Despite his many attempts to gain her attention, she ignored him—avoiding looking in his direction or speaking directly to him.
He wanted to attribute this to just another shift in her mood. Desdemona had always run hot and cold, her disposition fluctuating on a whim. Yet, he couldn’t help but feel as if something profound had happened to her in Snowbank ... something that would change things between them forever.
Arriving in the corridor housing her personal chambers, he found two of her royal bodyguards standing watch outside her door. He frowned, wondering when she had decided to post two guards outside her room rather than one.
“I’m sorry,” said one of the guards, stepping forward to block him from approaching Desdemona’s door. “The queen has asked not to be disturbed.”
Surely the guard didn’t know who he was to the queen. “If you will inform her that Malachi wishes to see her, I’m certain she’ll let me in.”
Refusing to step aside, the guard inclined his head and pierced him with a passive stare. “Her majesty was quite clear in her instructions. We were commanded to bar anyone from entering the room ... particularly you.”
Malachi flinched as if someone had slapped him.
She doesn’t want to see me?
Then, it hit him like a fist to the gut. She blamed him for had happened in Snowbank. People had died, and she hadn’t been there to stop it, because she’d been with him.
“No,” he murmured, taking a step toward the guard.
The second sentry made a move toward him, placing a hand on the sword sheathed at his hip. Malachi’s blood began to heat, his muscles tingling with the urge to shift into his animal form and tear them both limb from limb.
“No!” he repeated, louder this time, as he rushed forward in an attempt to get past them.
Both guards converged on him at once, each grasping one of his arms and attempting to drag him away from the door. Planting his feet, Malachi fought against them, standing his ground.
Grunting and cursing, they found their strength could be no match for his—fueled by the beast that lived inside of him, as well as his anger.
“Des!” he called out, his voice booming down the darkened corridor. “Des, I know you’re in there ... I know you can hear me!”
One of the guards slammed a fist into his jaw, throwing him off balance and into the wall. The other pinned one of his arms behind his back and attempted to hold him against the cold stones. The clank of chains sounded behind him, and he realized they meant to shackle him and drag him away.
“I’m not going to stop!” he bellowed, throwing his elbow back into the man pinning him to the wall. The sound of bone crunching mingled with the guard’s cry of pain as he fell back, releasing him. “I’m going to keep coming back to this door until you let me in! And if you refuse, I will simply climb the wall to your balcony. You will not turn me away. Let me in, Des!”
The first guard approached with the shackles, but hesitated when he caught sight of his companion, clutching his bleeding face and glaring daggers at Malachi.
The door swung open and Desdemona appeared, wearing a black robe, her long, dark hair hanging down her back in a single braid.
“What is going on out here?” she demanded, sweeping out into the corridor and leveling a glare at each of them.
“I informed him that you wished to be left one, but he would not heed me,” the guard holding the chains replied.
“So, you tried to beat him into submission?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty,” the second guard said, pointing at his bloody face. “We weren’t exactly the ones doing the beating.”
Scowling at him, she crossed her arms over her chest. “There was no need for violence.”
“They attempted to manhandle me first,” he replied, returning her stare without flinching. He was not going to let her shut him out without an explanation. “I won’t leave until you talk to me.”
Desdemona was silent for a long moment, during which she seemed to try to decide whether she could force him to leave. He crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow at her, making it clear that he wasn’t going anywhere.
Finally, she stood away from her door with a sigh, sweeping one arm toward the opening. “Fine. Just for a moment.”
Casting the guards a smug look, he brushed past them and made his way to the door, ducking swiftly inside before she could change her mind.
“Go clean yourself up,” she said to the injured guard. “Find someone to relieve you.”
“Yes, my queen,” he replied.
Stepping into the room, she closed the door and stood facing it, keeping her back to him. He studied her, frowning at her rigid posture and the determined angle of her head.
What could she be thinking, trying to shut him out? She should have known that his instincts would never allow him to be apart from her. Between them, the bond of a Shifter male and his mate had begun to form—Malachi could feel it with every beat of his heart. Perhaps she felt it, too, and it had begun to frighten her. But, he would never know that if she insisted on ignoring him.
“Des, what’s the matter?” he asked, crossing the room toward her. “Whatever it is, I wish you’d let me help you—”
She whirled on him just before he could reach out to grasp her shoulders. Eyes wide, she backed away from him and held her hands up as if to ward him off. She shook her head at him and clenched her jaw.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
Lowering his hands back down to his sides, he clenched them into fists. They trembled with the force of the panic surging through his veins. He could not lose her ... not when he’d finally won her. Or had he? Perhaps for her to know that he loved her wasn’t enough.
“Talk to me,” he urged. “If this has something to do with what happened at Snowbank, then we can get through it together. I want to be here for you, Des.”
“I can’t allow that,” she replied, her voice clipped and strained.
He could hear the emotion causing the slightest quiver in her tone. She might present this cold façade to him, but he knew well the storm of emotions she kept bottled up inside. As a Phoenix, she felt things in a way no one else did.
“Why not?” he prodded.
“Because I am a queen!” she bellowed, hands balling up at her sides, cheeks flushing red. “I do not have the luxury of running off with my lover, and shirking my responsibilities to my people!”
“Don’t talk about me as if I’m some sort of concubine,” he growled, a tightness in his chest stealing his breath away. He felt as if he were drowning, and the only person who could save him had stood back and decided to let him die. “And you have not neglected your people. You have done more for them these past few days than your mother has in over a century of ruling.”
“It isn’t enough,” she argued. “Not when people are dying because of my negligence.”
“You cannot blame yourself for what happened,” he countered. “Roimas and Henfas could have died before you decided to take power. They could have gotten ill and died tomorrow. We do not choose our fate, Des. The only thing certain in life is death, with only the time and place left a mystery.”
Wrapping her arms around herself, she leaned against the door and closed her eyes. “Like you, I have the instincts of my animal counterpart. I can feel things before they happen. I can sense them. That is, unless I’m not paying attention. Don’t you see? I didn’t sense what was coming because I was ...”
He lowered his gaze to the floor. “Because you were with me.”
“Because I was distracted by you,” she supplied.
Nodding, he cleared his throat. “So ... you blame me.”
He hardly heard her move before she was on him, bringing her hands up to cup his face. With a sigh, he sank into her touch, resting in the warm chalice of her palms.
“Malachi, no,” she whispered. “This isn’t your fault ... it’s mine. You are so wonderful and good, and ... I’m afraid I lose myself when I am with you.”
The urge to return her touch seized him, yet he could not move, too afraid that it would frighten her away.
“As I do when I’m with you,” he whispered.
She gave him a sad smile and released him, taking a step away from him, then another. “I now understand why Queen Adrah has chosen to remain alone for so long. A queen’s first duty should be to her people, and love is a distraction.”
“Love is a gift,” he argued, forgetting about not wanting to scare her and reaching out to grasp her shoulders. “It is the thing that makes us want to fight against evil ... because we know that in love there exists everything pure, good, and true in the world.”
“Malachi, please,” she croaked, blinking back tears. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
Shrugging out of his hold, Desdemona moved past him and swept toward the table where she took her meals. His mouth fell open, shock making him incapable of speech for a long moment.
“You’re ending this,” he managed, finding his voice again. “You’re pushing me away.”
“I’m pulling myself away,” she corrected. “It isn’t fair to the people of Mollac for their queen to become absorbed with pursuing her own happiness at their expense. It is the mistake my mother made when she chose the quest for everlasting beauty and youth. Look what it did to her.”
“You are not your mother,” he insisted. “You are far stronger than she could ever be.”
Turning back to face him, she nodded. “Yes. I am strong enough to know that I must put Mollac first. And that is precisely what I will do.”
His head reeling, Malachi could hardly gather his bearings. Just one day earlier, he would have laughed if someone warned him that Desdemona would shun him. It would have seemed like the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard, when he knew how long she had loved him. Now, she was slipping through his fingers like water, and he had no notion of how to stop it from happening.
“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t do this. I need you, Des. I love you.”
Swiping at the tears streaming from her eyes, she sniffled. “I must.”
Beginning to pace, he ran a hand through his hair, no doubt mussing it even more than usual. “Will you send me away, then? Or am I to be tormented by having to endure your presence day after day?”
She shifted her gaze away from him and stared at the fire roaring in the hearth. “If remaining at Semran Hall is too hard for you, perhaps it is best if you leave.”
He clenched his teeth and shook his head. “I pledged an oath to you and to Mollac. I will not leave, or allow you to simply throw me away.”
“I’m not throwing you—”
“Yes, you are!” he thundered.
She flinched in reaction to his raised voice, but Malachi couldn’t find it in himself to be sorry. Didn’t she understand how deeply she had hurt him? He felt as if he were being torn limb from limb.
“Don’t fix your lips to tell me that this is anything other than what I just said,” he growled from between clenched teeth. “You’re tossing me aside without giving me a choice in the matter.”
“Please, Malachi,” she choked out on a sob.
“Please, what?” he challenged. “Make this easier for you, when you’ve ripped my heart from my chest? Very well, my lady. What might I do to make this easier for your royal eminence?”
Her chin quivered as she raised her gaze to meet his, and he knew he had hurt her. “Perhaps it would be best for you to return to Snowbank. You could continue to work in service to Mollac by helping to protect the people there.”
He inclined his head. “I will leave for Snowbank immediately.”
“There is no need,” she said, softening her voice. “You haven’t slept. You should rest first.”
“It is no longer my lady’s concern whether or not I sleep,” he snapped, avoiding her gaze. “I will depart for Snowbank the moment I am gone from this room. Is there any other way that I might serve my queen?”
Desdemona took a step toward him, but then faltered as if thinking better of it. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides, as if she wrestled with a decision.
He held his breath and waited, hope blossoming in him even when he felt as if she had crushed him. Part of him wished she would take it all back and tell him she could not let him go. Because he loved her, he would forgive her without question. He would forgive her for just about anything.
“Perhaps ...” she paused, drew a deep breath, and let it out in a rush. “Perhaps you could help me to ... forget.”
The last of his hope vanished, and something he could not name seized his chest in a vicious hold. Not quite anger or sadness; perhaps some mixture of the two.
“Forget?” he scoffed. “Forget me?”
“Maybe it would be better—”
“If you had never known me at all?” he prodded, his voice growing harsher with every word. Would there be no end to the pain she would inflict upon him? “Am I to understand that you no longer want me, but are willing to use my abilities when it suits your purposes?”
“That’s not it,” she replied. “I would never—”
“Never what?” he interjected. “Use me and toss me aside? Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?”
Desdemona sank down onto the nearest chair and folded her hands in her lap. Neglecting to meet his gaze, she sighed. “You should go. I do not think there is anything else I can say to make you understand why I must do this. I am so sorry if you’re angry with me. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you.”
But, you did, he wanted to say.
There were many other things he wanted to say to her. He wanted to beg her not to send him away—to haunt the hallway outside her door and remind her every day why they belonged together. Instead, he turned his back on her and strode toward the door.
One thing he had come to understand about Desdemona, was when she made up her mind about something, no force on earth could change it. It would seem she had quite firmly decided that he could not be a part of her life.
Pausing with one hand on the door, he glanced back at her over his shoulder. “The answer is no. I will not use my ability to help you forget me. If I must suffer through thinking of you every day and knowing I cannot have you, then you will suffer right along with me.”
Without waiting for her to respond, he threw the door open and fled the room. The sound of it slamming behind him reverberated through the corridor and startled the two guards standing watch. Ignoring them, Malachi retreated the way he had come, determined to gather the few possessions he had brought, and leave for Snowbank; the sooner the better.