Page 16 of Seasons of War
He'd find an excuse to travel to the territories and work with his friends on a plan to break Kira out of the prison. Sure, no one had ever escaped before, but Kira made history writing in the sky. Now they'd make history together by freeing her from the Phaedra's captivity.
What if Becka Rogers gave up information before he figured out how to help Kira? Once his father finalized their plans and sent demands to her mother, there'd be little time. The Phaedra wanted to destroy as many Followers as possible. An unknown countdown ticked away the days and hours before her mother offered countless lives in exchange for hers.
He rubbed his temples.
Zayne doubted two women ever angered the Phaedra as much as this mother and daughter. The Followers called that fate. Zayne figured it had much more to do with how Becka raised Kira. A parent could pass revolution to their child. Zayne's mother did so to him, though his father worked to pass on complicity and cruelty.
As early as Zayne remembered, Mom taught him kindness, and that stood in such stark contrast to the Phaedra that it guided him through the darkness. No matter how lost he became, Mom's light shone so bright he always found his way back.
Perhaps Kira and Zayne's mothers wound them together three years ago and today, setting them on courses of rebellion destined to intertwine.
He eased out of bed, grunting at the pain and stiffness. Walking without crutches around Kira hindered his recovery, but he wanted her to see him as unfeeling. Though he couldn't hide the limp, he did cover the pain and weakness.
Or he wanted to punish himself. Brock's accusing voice lobbed the thought at him even though his friend still traveled through the territories right now. Leaving him behind with those dead bodies crushed Zayne. He'd never forget doing this.
A cold shower washed much away: the sweat that doused his body, the phantom grime of blood, the feeling of being watched. It didn't remove the weight of his guilt, but he didn't deserve relief from that. Not after he'd abandoned Kira alone in prison, thinking the only person she had in that terrible place wanted to hurt her.
After drying off, Zayne tied his bandage tighter than he needed to, relishing the pain, because it offered some form of justice to Kira. That he'd suffer a fraction of how much she did. Whether he'd ever wear any scars as penance for Kira, he didn't know, but he had plenty to remember her by. The memory of the dead and those he hurt were permanently carved into his body, crawling across his chest, down his shoulders, along his arms.
The PXI may erase the evidence of the wound that tied Edwards and Zayne together in her last moments. Scars often didn't form with these high doses. But the one cutting in a diagonal line across his chest, over his heart, could be hers too.
The other marks sickened him, though. A black tattoo of the emperor's tower stretched up both of Zayne's forearms, marking him as the Phaedra's. He wanted to slice the ink off his body. To have a single seal was rare. But two? Zayne hated that he'd earned both.
He also wouldn't mind cutting off the snakes that ran from the back of his neck, crept over his shoulders, and slithered along his collarbone. The twin serpents were the greatest honor a soldier could receive. If the Phaedra's seals told the world that he was loyal, then this mark testified to his unyielding courage. He was a war hero who kept his mouth shut when captured.
Please.
The men who died horrific deaths deserved the tattoo. Not Zayne.
Not fucking Zayne.
He pulled his shirt over his head. What was wrong with him? So much rage rushed through him that he felt like he might catch on fire. Enough. It was almost time for Mellie to arrive, and he needed to be attentive when the fiancée he hadn't seen in eight months showed up. Hurting her feelings made everything worse.
Still, the thought of seeing her right now made him want to crawl back into bed and chase his nightmares.
That wasn't fair to Mellie.
She deserved better from Zayne. This wasn't the first time he'd been engaged, despite his age. The first time—the first woman—destroyed him in a way even war couldn't. So, Mellie was perfect for him. Not anyone who may derail his focus. Sweet, funny, charming with a sort of faux innocence that worked for him. Zayne was fond of her. Not in love with her, because love was the mistake he made last time. He loved Nadia more than he ever loved anything, and that made all the wounds they inflicted on each other hurt so much more.
With Mellie, their relationship remained pleasant and transactional. Mellie wanted his family name and all the power that came with it. Zayne needed to fulfill his social duty to the Phaedra by playing the part of a family man. Who knew? Mellie might want Zayne. Might prefer to hold his heart in her hands. He didn't know. That wasn't what drove her to this relationship, though.
And so far, she seemed content with what he offered. That meant Zayne needed to play nice with Mellie. She deserved respect for her contentment with their arrangement, and it wasn't right to take out his frustrations on her.
He kept reminding himself of that. Reminding himself to be gentle, but that anger refused to abate. When the front door opened, and the sweet voice called out his name, agitation blazed into an inferno.
Despite that, Zayne limped into the living room, taking in Mellie's short black bob and the flowing yellow dress fanning at her knees. The last time he saw her, she'd worn her hair long. Either looked nice.
She plastered her hands against her mouth. “Zayne.”
He didn't need to force a smile like he feared. He liked seeing the joy in her eyes when he returned after a long separation. “Hi, Mel.”
Tears sprinkled onto her cheeks, and she ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. “Oh, Zayne.” Her soft hands smoothed along his neck and disappeared into his hair. “I can't believe we almost lost you.”
Searching her eyes for the truth of her words, he wondered whether she realized she missed his name more than him. “I didn't mean to worry you.”
Mellie giggled against him, kissing his jaw. “Of course. I'm sure you didn't.” She worked closer, and he slid his hand lower along her back, giving her what she wanted. Holding her felt nice, anyway. She smelled faintly of honey and something he couldn't place. Flowers, perhaps? No telling. Not mud or sweat like the camp.
Soft lips trailed his jaw, and he brought his mouth to hers, the taste of her kiss quieting the buzz of war. Her soft moan as she deepened the kiss made him question himself for a moment. Made him wonder if he'd read her wrong and whether she felt more than he thought.
