He would be there. He’d give me the money to open my own shop; and because I wouldn’t charge anyone, I’d sell my paintings to pay him back. Because I would pay him back, mate or no.
And he’d be here during the summer, flying over the meadow, chasing me across the little streams and up the sloped, grassy mountainside. He would sit with me under the stars, feeding me fat summer berries. And he would be at that table in the town house, roaring with laughter—never again cold and cruel and solemn. Never again anyone’s slave or whore.
And at night … At night we’d go upstairs together, and he would whisper stories of his adventures, and I’d whisper about my day, and …
And there it was.
A future.
The future I saw for myself, bright as the sunrise over the Sidra.
A direction, and a goal, and an invitation to see what else immortality might offer me. It did not seem so listless, so empty, anymore.
And I would fight until my last breath to attain it—to defend it.
So I knew what I had to do.
Five days passed, and I painted every room in the cottage. Mor had winnowed in extra paint before she’d left, along with more food than I could possibly eat.
But after five days, I was sick of my own thoughts for company—sick of waiting, sick of the thawing, dripping snow.
Thankfully, Mor returned that night, banging on the door, thunderous and impatient.
I’d taken a bath an hour before, scrubbing off paint in places I hadn’t even known it was possible to smear it, and my hair was still drying as I flung open the door to the blast of cool air.
But Mor wasn’t leaning against the threshold.
CHAPTER
54
I stared at Rhys.
He stared at me.
His cheeks were tinged pink with cold, his dark hair ruffled, and he honestly looked freezing as he stood there, wings tucked in tight.
And I knew that one word from me, and he’d go flying off into the crisp night. That if I shut the door, he’d go and not push it.
His nostrils flared, scenting the paint behind me, but he didn’t break his stare. Waiting.
Mate.
My—mate.
This beautiful, strong, selfless male … Who had sacrificed and wrecked himself for his family, his people, and didn’t feel it was enough, that he wasn’t enough for anyone … Azriel thought he didn’t deserve someone like Mor. And I wondered if Rhys … if he somehow felt the same about me. I stepped aside, holding the door open for him.
I could have sworn I felt a pulse of knee-wobbling relief through the bond.
But Rhys took in the painting I’d done, gobbling down the bright colors that now made the cottage come alive, and said, “You painted us.”
“I hope you don’t mind.”
He studied the threshold to the bedroom hallway. “Azriel, Mor, Amren, and Cassian,” he said, marking the eyes I’d painted. “You do know that one of them is going to paint a moustache under the eyes of whoever pisses them off that day.”
I clamped my lips to keep the smile in. “Oh, Mor already promised to do that.”
“And what about my eyes?”
I swallowed. All right, then. No dancing around it.
My heart was pounding so wildly I knew he could hear it. “I was afraid to paint them.”
Rhys faced me fully. “Why?”
No more games, no more banter. “At first, because I was so mad at you for not telling me. Then because I was worried I’d like them too much and find that you … didn’t feel the same. Then because I was scared that if I painted them, I’d start wishing you were here so much that I’d just stare at them all day. And it seemed like a pathetic way to spend my time.”
A twitch of his lips. “Indeed.”
I glanced at the shut door. “You flew here.”
He nodded. “Mor wouldn’t tell me where you’d gone, and there are only so many places that are as secure as this one. Since I didn’t want our Hybern friends tracking me to you, I had to do it the old-fashioned way. It took … a while.”
“You’re—better?”
“Healed completely. Quickly, considering the bloodbane. Thanks to you.”