Page 68 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Bryar flashes them a final, icy glare, no doubt ready to have them punished for their failings. In any other situation, she would be enjoying the spectacle of the protective and angry man before her. Tonight, it feels like more of an insult. Pulling the cloak around her stomach, Myla offers them a weak smile. “They were only obeying my orders.”

“You ordered them to let you freeze?”

“Enough, Bryar.”

“But you are well?” he probes.

Ignoring the longing in his eyes, she turns her attention to the ground before her. “I am perfectly fine. A new friend of mine delivered her child today. I helped.”

“You helped?” he repeats, astonished. “That is remarkable.”

“It was,” she agrees. “Perhaps, I would have enjoyed it more were that experience not looming in my near future.”

“You will be alright,” he assures, as he begins leading her back to the palace. His expression is unreadable, but the tensing of his jaw is a dead giveaway: he is enjoying this even less than she.

Myla squares her shoulders, biting down on the words that beg to spill forth, the confessions bottling up inside her. She yearns to expose her rawest feelings in hopes he will find a safe place inside himself to keep them. Instead, she nods, words failing entirely.

They walk in silence, their footsteps sending sprays of rainwater in every direction when her footing slips beneath her. Bryar’s arms slip around her waist, intercepting the fall. His furnace-like heat a stark contrast to the icy cold of the rain absorbing into her skin. Bryar helps her straighten, finding her footing well before he moves to unravel from her. His hands linger, pressed to her back, their faces close. Myla watches as his throat tightens. It seems she is not the only one swallowing words.

“Let us get you back,” he says finally, offering her a stabilizing arm. “We will have your maid draw you a bath.” At the mention of bathing, Myla’s mind sabotages all decency, flashing memories of the scandalously exhilarating touches exchanged. That is, before they ended their relationship entirely. She wants to agree to a bath on the condition he joins her and satisfies the beast of longing that has tortured her dreams for weeks. She also wants to say, ‘you can not tell me what to do; you are not my husband’. But even then, she knows, husband or not, she makes a terrible listener and maybe that is why she is in this situation to begin with. Maybe the rebellious inclinations she has fed since her marriage to Caius have caused her to lose her ability to compromise. Whatever seems to be her problem, it will not be solved tonight, and saying something, anything, to him will only confuse their already foggy situation.

So, she stays silent, willing her fingers not to grip his arm too tightly and feed the sickness raging in her heart as the palace fades into view. They will be inside soon, and she will be alone in her room once more, hating herself for not saying what she wants to.

“Rhyland is expected to return tomorrow. He sent word to me last week with news of Falkmere. We should have breakfast together in the morning, so I may brief you.”

Brief me. He wants to have breakfast, as queen and captain, so he can brief me. “Yes. I have been worried; it will be good to get some answers and make a plan. I will see you in the morning.” She releases her grip on his arm and quickens her pace, trying to leave him behind before her resolve vanishes entirely.

“Myla—” he calls after her, a few quickened steps bringing him to her side once more. Myla internally curses the pressure forming between her legs, causing her to walk slower than she would like.

“When I said I needed to train alone, I did not realize it meant we would . . . drift so far from one another.”

Myla stops, her back to him and her eyes closed, a sense of rage simmering and threatening to boil over. Careful to check her words and tone, she speaks. “I know. Surely you see how space is what we both need to move on from this. Soon, Gods willing, I will be returning to Falkmere, and you shall remain here. It is best that I do not greet my child, and a kingdom looking to me for leadership, with a broken heart.”

He grabs her arm gently, moving her to face him. A gentle hand tips her chin upwards. Defiance or grief, whatever it is, she keeps her eyes closed, unwilling to meet his gaze lest she should find it as full of pain and yearning as hers.

“Look at me,” he utters the command under his breath.

Reluctantly, Myla’s eyes flutter open to find steam rising from his shoulders as the rain thunders down upon him. She is grateful for the rain which hides the tears pooling at her eyelids. “Please do not say anything confusing.”

“I do not know what to say,” he admits, his green eyes piercing deep within her. There is something boyish in his expression, no inhibitions, nothing of the fierce warrior lingers. Just a sad boy, who has carried his wounds into manhood and does not know where to lay them to rest. “But I know this should not be confusing.”

“You are right,” she agrees. “If the Gods willed this, it would not be confusing. Our love should not feel more impossible than the war raging around us.”

His hand lingers, grazing the skin along her jawline. “It is not our love that is not simple.” He releases her, taking what feels like a restraining step back, his warmth leaving with him. “If distance is what you need, then I will give you that. But do not fool yourself into thinking we are the problem.”

“Who is the problem, then?” Myla feels her words lash off her tongue, landing sharply. “What would you have me do?”

“I would have you make a selfish decision for once. Pick yourself.”

“So, you want me to walk away from my child’s birthright now?” she questions, unfastening his cloak from around her and shoving it into his arms. “It is all I have to give this child, Bryar. My parents are both dead—am I to simply take her to my family’s estate and hope nobody chases after the king’s heir? You do realize that this is no longer just about me? The child inside me is counting on me to make the absolute best choice I can for her. Throwing her into hiding at birth and keeping her from her kingdom is not what is best for her.”

Bryar shrugs, an unconvinced bob of his head nearly dismissing her words. “I do not want you to do anything that does not feel right for you and that baby.” He nods toward her stomach. “But sometimes what feels right to you and what you think everyone else expects from you may be different answers entirely.”

“So, what do you want?” Myla asks, hoping he has a less indirect answer.

“I want to marry you.” His body squares and is steeped in a confidence even the guards behind them seem unprepared to face. Myla hears them shift uncomfortably behind her.

Fuck. It does not get any less indirect than that. Myla stares mouth agape, listening as he speaks with confidence.