Page 112 of The Crown of the Dark Prince
I could endure with being the only one of my kind. Being a Goddess wasn’t just about power or isolation - it was about time and the endless expanse of it that stretched before me.
I would have an impossibly long lifespan.
While my friends aged, matured and moved through the finite chapters of their lives, I would remain the same. Eventually, I would watch them all die.
One day I would watch him die.
And I would have to keep living without them.
A tremor shook my hands as I dug them into the frozen earth, the storm inside me far worse than the snow that was beginning to fall.
Iris was right.
There were fates worse than death.
When I returned to the manor, I found Clay in the kitchen, his hands busy preparing a meal. I hesitated in the doorway, unsure whether I should speak. He looked calm, his movements precise as he chopped herbs, but there was an undercurrent of tension in the set of his shoulders. I watched silently until his eyes flicked up, surprise briefly softening his features, when he noticed me.
“How long have you been there?” he asked, his voice steady but distant—the kind of calm that came before a storm.
“Not long,” I lied. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
“You assume just because I was raised as royalty, I didn’t learn any other important skills?” He gave me a wry grin, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, before dusting his hands off and passing me a biscuit. “Try it.”
I took the offering and bit into it, unable to stop the soft moan that escaped as the warm, buttery flavor melted on my tongue. “Gods, that’s incredible.”
His lips quirked slightly, but he returned to chopping. “Sit,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. He gestured toward a stool at the counter. “You haven’t eaten all day.”
I frowned, thinking back. Had it really been that long? My stomach growled loudly in answer, and I clenched a hand against my middle in embarrassment. I didn’t know what was more surprising—that I’d simply forgotten to feed myself or that Clay had noticed.
Or that he still cared enough to cook for me.
He passed me a bowl of soup and another biscuit, which I took gratefully, savoring the first sweet taste. It was loaded with spices, savory at first, then settling into something unbelievably comforting.
“Thank you,” I mumbled. “You didn’t have to do this.”
He shrugged, still avoiding my gaze. “You’ve been sitting out there for hours in the cold. I don’t want you getting sick.”
The bitter words escaped before I could stop them. “Can I even get sick?”
Was that possible? Did Gods get colds?
The knife paused mid-chop, and his hands stilled. For a moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of the hearth behind us. He straightened slowly, finally meeting my gaze, his expression unreadable.
“I don’t know, Thea,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. “But I’d rather not test it out.”
I focused my attention on the bowl in front of me. “Why not?”
He arched a brow at me, suddenly looking very much like the stubborn prince who used to annoy me to no end. “Excuse me?”
“Why do you care?” I said louder, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “You made it very clear that you don’t think this is working between us, Clay. You walked away from me. So, why do you care whether I’ve eaten or whether I get sick?”
“Because I love you, Thea.” He said it as if it were an obvious fact, like saying the sky was blue or water was wet.
“You love me, but you don’t trust me.”
“And you love me, but you keep secrets from me,” he shot back, stabbing the knife point-down into the cutting board.
“This is a ridiculous thing for you to be angry about! Do you need me to tell you about every single soul I’ve met in the Underworld?”
