Crest (Ondine Quartet Book 3) (35 page)

Even my father, his friend, left before Tristan had a chance to say good-bye.

But Sian had remained and they'd bonded through their pain.

"You were betrothed to her," I said flatly.

He tensed. "You knew?"

"Come on," I half-joked. "You know how I am with information."

Tristan stared. "At the time, Sian and I grieved so deeply we didn't care when our parents asked us to fulfill the terms of the betrothal."

I shrugged, movement and expression light. "Sure. I know the duties of —"

"We didn't love each other. Not in the way either of us deserved."

The words slid through me, quiet and potent, accompanied by a strange combination of relief and sadness.

"In the beginning, we tried. Mainly because continuing the betrothal somehow felt like a way of keeping Eric near."

Vulnerability touched the edges of his face, expression less shuttered than I'd seen it in a while.

"But we were miserable and knew it wasn't going to work," he continued. "Once we reached our decision four years ago, I left for Haverleau and didn't return until last summer."

I caught the remorse in his tone. "You can't possibly think it's your fault."

"I regret hurting her. Sian was already grieving over Eric and trying to fulfill her duty to the kingdom. I should've considered how others would perceive our decision. It caused more problems than it alleviated."

Because Tristan was in a position of power, questions were asked about Sian when the betrothal ended.

Doing the right thing had come at a cost. Just like with Jesse.

"The choice should've been hers to begin with."

"It should've been yours, too," I added.

He gave a wan smile. "Perhaps."

And just like that, another part of who Tristan was slipped inside me. This moment, these moments, were what I could hold on to.

Understanding this kingdom, his homeland was the safest way to be close without breaching the wall.

We couldn't share the future. But sharing the past might be enough to ease some of the ache.

Talk to me.

"There's a word your people use when they greet each other," I said slowly. "
Kahliev
."

Kah-lee-eff. I carefully sounded it out. The selkies said it with a mellifluous arc, starting strong and tapering to a light touch of breath.

His mouth curved. "Nice pronunciation."

"What does it mean?"

 
"Our people were born of Magic at a time when the world was still raw. A dangerous volcano grew restless beneath the ocean, threatening to destroy us. According to legend, the eldest son of the first selkie family swam into the vent and used his seal form and blood magic to stop the eruption. In doing so, his body became a part of the rock and earth that future generations would stand upon. His sacrifice enabled our race to continue and his name, Kahliev, became a symbol of what we have emerged from and what is to come."

"So it's like a kind of bond?"

"It means a connection that cannot be severed. One forged not from blood or magic, but from shared experiences and growth. It's both more and less than a binding between mates. It transcends time and space."

A greedy abyss opened, a hunger I'd also felt in his office as the sun sank at our feet.

I wanted more.

More of the colors and shadings that made him. I wanted to absorb it in the same place I carefully held a sapphire pedaillon and the cadences of Bach, where the warmth of his skin and the memory of his mouth resonated.

A place so hidden, so small and fragile, even Magic had been unable to touch it during my trial.

Mind spun with the incredible things I'd seen over the past few days and I suddenly remembered.

Curiosity lit up his face. "What is it?"

I moved to the center of the mat. "At the Áimoni, I saw a trainee do this thing..."

I imitated the move that took out four selkies at once. Balancing on my left leg, I swung my right around in an awkward, modified sweep kick.

"
Drigor
. It means tornado."

Excitement surged. "Can you show me?"

He shook his head. "That takes a lot of work —"

"I can do it."

After what happened today, I needed the physical challenge.

A small smile slowly spread on his face and he joined me on the mat. His body whipped gracefully around. "The key is in how strength is distributed from the core."

He repeated it several times for my benefit. The precise, elegant movement required supreme control and was much harder than it looked.

Tristan grabbed the chair, turned it around, and gracefully straddled it with his arms crossed along the top of the back. My heart jumped a little and I forced myself to look away from his distracting biceps so I could focus.

A comfortable silence settled in the room and I went to work.

In the beginning, he said a few words correcting my movement.

And then he stopped.

Everything else faded and I lost myself in the task.

The familiar meditative quality of physically pushing my body to its limits took over. For so many years, I'd used angry frustration and the endless loneliness of my daily life to drive me.

It hadn't eased my mother's criticism, but the disciplined training had created a sense of structure within an unstable environment.

Legs numbed, waist and hips ached. The pain quickly melted into the background.

I practiced the kick over and over again, repetition providing a quiet comfort. Slowly, the logic behind the move seeped into me. It was about wielding power in one even stroke.

Drigor
meant tornado because it worked like one. Strengthening the central downward pull drove the force of the spiral vortex.

The more Virtue I channeled into the standing leg, the stronger my balance felt, like an oak tree firmly fastened to the earth. My rotating leg grew faster, whipping out in a lethal, perfectly controlled strike.

"Enough." Tristan stood in front of me. "You've been at it for three hours."

I didn't know which startled me more. The amount of time that had passed or that he'd stayed for all of it.

Swaying slightly, I winced as the burn in my legs broke through the haze of focus. Heart thudded in my ears, breaths came rough and uneven.

Tristan rested his finger on a small scar, about two centimeters long, on my inner right elbow. A question flickered through his eyes.

Surprised, I glanced at the pale, faded line. I almost forgot it was there.

"It wasn't from a fight or anything like that. When I was five, I tried to help a boy who lived down the block from me. Hid him from a bad guy behind a bunch of wooden crates. Nail caught me."

He stepped closer. "You tried to hide him from Aquidae?"

"No, from a human. Monsters are everywhere, you know," I said lightly. "Anyway, we were Rogue so there were no Healers to fix it. Left that behind."

"I never noticed it before."

The way he said it sounded as if he'd noticed everything else on my body.

A current of awareness hummed against my skin.

Maybe it was because he'd told me about Sian. Or because he always shared with me such wondrous things,
 
giving me a beauty I wouldn't have without him.

Like the orange blaze of a sunset and the melodic language of Bach. Like
kahliev
and
drigor
.

But I suddenly wanted to tell him. And this time, I didn't need Magic pushing me.

"I shouldn't have gotten involved but Robby was kind of a friend." Words shot out in a nervous jumble. "Empath sensed the local postal worker wanted to hurt him so every day I hid him to keep him safe. When I told my mother, she worried I'd gotten too close and he'd be targeted by Aquidae. So we left him behind."

The last part came out in a rush and the pressure on my chest slightly eased.

Tristan didn't say anything. Dark eyes lingered on that tiny expanse of skin.

Embarrassment stole over me. It wasn't about the scar. I'd been in too many fights over the years and my body was filled with marks from old injuries.

But it was the first time I mentioned Robby in twelve years.

A shiver raced down my spine. I felt exposed and slightly ashamed, as if I'd revealed something ugly and cowardly, something I should've kept locked away.

"This boy you tried to save," he finally said. "Was he okay?"

Nine years later, I'd gone to the library to dig up the consequences of what I'd done.

Robby had disappeared a week after we left. Police discovered his body four months later. No one was ever arrested for the crime.

All I could think of was how he used to share his toys with me.

Icy regret chilled my insides. I swallowed hard. "No."

Tristan grasped my wrist and gently pulled my arm toward him.

I stilled, frozen by the past and mesmerized by the present. Watched as his head slowly, carefully, dipped.

The barest trace of breath brushed my skin before warm lips pressed against the faded white line.

"It must've hurt," he murmured.

Body jolted as if electricity shot through my veins. Coldness melted, replaced by a burning warmth. My throat felt swollen, too full with all the words that tangled and choked.

He pulled away, fingers remaining around my wrist. With each breath, clean, masculine scent sank deep into those hidden places, awakening vivid memories of his taste and touch.

"It was a long time ago," I whispered.

Naked wistfulness shone on his face. Eyes dropped to my mouth, darkening with emotion.

Heated restlessness swirled, a dangerous need gaining intensity in the few inches separating us.

"Kendra —"

The door opened.

"Your Highness." Cam sounded surprised.

Tristan stepped away, composed and steady. "Martin. Girard."

While he gathered his things, I faced Cam and Alex with what I hoped was a convincingly bland look.

"You guys couldn't sleep, either?"

Cam frowned. Alex raised his brow. "It's morning."

Oh.

"I'll see you later." Tristan gave us a sharp nod and strode toward the door.

"I should go, too."

My body felt flushed in a way I knew didn't come from the workout. I swiped my towel off the mat and hurried toward the exit.

"Irisavie."

Damn it.

I turned. "Yeah?"

Cam jogged up, brow furrowed in concern. "Does he know about what happened with his father —"

"No." I gave him a hard look. "And you're not going to say anything about it."

He studied me for a moment, then shrugged. "Whatever. Not my problem."

"Good." I turned to leave.

"But here's the thing."

I sighed. "What?"

"You have a perimeter defense system worthy of the NSA and you're an annoying, bossy pain in my ass who keeps everyone at arm's length."

"Adore you, too." I decided to practice the
drigor
move on him later. "What's your point?"

"I'm trying to be your friend." Unusually solemn eyes glanced at the door. "You know what you're doing there?"

I remembered the brush of vulnerability across Tristan's face. Dark eyes watching me work for hours, with an intense focus as if there was no one else in the world.

The vibrant warmth of his mouth on my skin.

My arm tingled. "Not a damn clue."

ELITE TRAINING WAS CANCELLED DUE to yesterday's events. After a quick shower, I visited the infirmary before heading out to find Adrian.

A brutal crisscross of raised skin tissue now scarred Ethan's chest and stomach. Worse were the dark shadows permanently sunken into his face. It was the look of someone who'd survived hell.

But he was alive and Daniel said he'd probably be back in shape within a few days.

Lucas was another matter.

I entered the north woods, chest twisting at the memory of his deadened eyes. He remained in the palace infirmary because he had nowhere else to go. His family was gone.

Daniel fussed over him and provided gentle, emotional support. Given everything that happened, human contact was probably the best thing for him.

Forest unrolled before me in a tapestry of rich, earthy colors. Faint laughter came from the open windows of the school but the Áimoni remained empty.

The armory was a heavily fortified bunker surrounded by flat clearing. Like the school and training arena, there was no cover for enemy approach.

I pried open heavy steel doors and headed down a steep set of concrete stairs.

To the left, rows upon rows of neatly holstered
kouperets
lined the walls. On the right, a wide variety of weapons from all over the world were neatly arranged. Everything from sabres, spears, katanas, crossbows, cutlasses, axes, rifles, and pistols.

A chamber of gleaming, lethal instruments.

I loved it.

Adrian sat on a bench in the center like a king guarding his gold. Dirty blonde hair carelessly fell around his face and he methodically drew a cloth across a glowing blade. Several more
kouperets
waited on the bench beside him.

"I was wondering when you'd find your way here." His mouth tilted up, softening the hard, angular lines of his face. "You going to help me with this?"

I joined him and picked up a
kouperet
.

He handed me another cloth. "If you press too hard, you might scratch the surface and affect the evenness of Essence distribution."

He carefully wiped the smooth silver and I mimicked his movements.

"How does the kingdom find these weapons?"

"Many of them have historic value. Yahaira finds the most interesting ones to add to our armory collection."

I startled. "Sian's mother?"

"She's the Curator."

Which meant she also selected the artwork and other valuables adorning the palace.

"Additional art and weapons are also stored in the treasury." He glanced around the armory with an appreciative gaze. "Understanding weaponry is just as much an art form as anything else."

I'll bet. Finding treasures and weapons for the selkies sounded like such a cool job.