Page 141 of Interion

He nodded. A thousand questions flooded my mind, questions I wanted answers to. Or at least I thought I did. What was the whole story? What did she really mean to him? What happened to Akira? This time, surprising me, Zion didn't stay silent waiting for a direct question.

“Kaori is my second-in-command, the closest thing to family I've ever had in Interion. We've known each other since we were kids—it was friendship at first sight. Me, her, and... her brother... We trained together at the army academy and earned our ranks fighting side by side in the same squadron. I've known her my whole life. I know how capable she is, and she sees the army the same way I do. She looks at my men the way I do, and I'd trust their lives to her. Kaori is very, let's say... spirited.” He scratched the back of his head. “That made all those years of pressure on the battlefield so much lighter. I could share the burden of having so many lives on my shoulders. She was supposed to be commanding the army while I was on vacation, but there was some kind of interference from higher up.”

“She's the girl in the photo, isn't she? Akira's sister.”

I heard Zion swallow hard at the mere mention of his friend's name. The shadows clung to his skin as if trying to comfort him, and his eyes filled with such deep sorrow that somehow—whether through the bond or just the sheer intensity—I felt an echo of his pain.

“Yes,” he replied, and said nothing more. I desperately wanted to hear about Akira, but I wouldn't push him—not after seeing how much pain those memories caused.

In my short life, I'd discovered there were three types of pain: the first was loud and released itself as fury—it could be aggressive and explosive, but when the outburst ended, things tended to improve; the second was mournful and drained away with tears—it was intense and took longer to heal, but with time and a bit of therapy and help, it softened and stayed at manageable levels; the third was the kind that didn't manifest at all and stayed trapped in the silence of a broken heart. That was the worst, because it corroded you from the inside out until it destroyed everything or until it freed itself somehow.

I feared Zion's was the last kind.

He stayed quiet for so long that I started to think he'd forgotten he was with me at dinner. So I cleared my throat to get his attention. It worked—he pulled himself together and continued:

“I had the necklace, but my life wasn't in danger and she was… you know, much worse off than me. She's important to me, so I lent her the necklace. I hope you don't mind.”

It was true—I knew from the photo that they were close, obvious from the way she casually draped her arm around Zion's neck and smiled with satisfaction. Somehow, that had never bothered me before, but today, when I saw my necklace around her neck, I felt uneasy about the whole situation. It was silly and wrong to feel that way—I couldn't even name the feeling—but it was impossible to control.

“I don't mind,” I lied. Then I went back to eating in silence to end the uncomfortable subject.

I could feel he was still looking at me, but I didn't look up. I needed time to process what he'd said and to avoid asking more questions he obviously wasn't willing to answer. A few seconds later, I heard Zion's silverware clinking against his plate too. We ate in silence for almost the entire meal, even though I'd promised myself that wouldn't happen. When the plates were cleared, Zion ordered another bottle of wine, and as soon as the waiter left, I noticed him fidgeting in his chair. All the electric tension that had built up between us seemed to evaporate. So I watched him, giving him an opening to say what was bothering him. He quickly picked up on the cue.

“There's something I'd like to discuss with you.” He scratched the end of one eyebrow with his thumb. “Actually, it's something I'd like to tell you.”

This time, I was the one caught off guard.

“I owe you an explanation for my less-than-gentlemanly behavior,” he said without ceremony, and I leaned in, paying closer attention. “I know that in the beginning, when I came back, I was extremely rude, crude, and negligent as a partner, but there is an explanation, as I said before.”

“I'm all ears.” I rested my elbows on the table, staring at him while suppressing any emotion my face might betray.

Zion cleared his throat and continued:

“I never avoided our relationship because I wanted to. I did it because I needed to avoid the partnership bond…” Then he told me about the agreement, the demands, the years away, and I found myself caught in the middle of an explanation I already knew, already understood, but not from his perspective. Serguei had explained this. I knew I should have interrupted him and told him I already knew, but I wanted to hear his words and what he would tell me. I needed to know if there was something more, so I just paid even closer attention to the details. Throughout the entire confession, Zion seemed rigid and anxious. His breathing was quick, even though he was clearly trying to control it so he could continue. “When I brought you here, things were… difficult. Much more than they are now. I tried everything to get you accepted in Interion, but I only succeeded with Serguei's help, the king's most valuable pillar.”

He stopped and shook his head.

“The king didn't want to accept you into the nation, and knowing about the bond, he was even willing to disown me so you wouldn't stay here. However, Serguei has influence over Elitium. So in the end, I had to make a blood agreement with Serguei. If he interceded and convinced the king to let you stay, we would make a magical agreement—one I can never break while it's in effect.”

Zion's eyes looked sad, and his gaze held so much bitterness I could feel it in my chest.

“In exchange, he asked me not to seal the partnership. He made me promise to stay away for at least five years and to let you recover from your traumas. I also couldn't tell you until you found out on your own. He asked me not to lock in the bond, not until…”

His words grew quieter and quieter until his voice faded away, as if he didn't know how to say it—and I knew why.

“Until I was trained enough, physically and psychologically. Until I wasn't a weak point in your lives,” I finished for him.

If he said those words, it would be like he was forcing me to train and do my best. Zion must have been afraid I'd interpret it as blackmail to make me work harder.

After a few seconds, the information settled in my chest, and a massive ache took root there. Serguei hadn't asked him to keep his distance—he'd demanded it and kept forcing Zion to stay away. I wondered if this explained some of the anger Zion felt toward his father.

“How do you know?” His eyes went wide and glassy. Only then did I realize what I'd done. I'd completely forgotten I wasn't supposed to know this and had given myself away. I swallowed hard. Okay, this was my cue to speak. Maybe being in a restaurant would help. Maybe he'd think that shouting or exploding with rage in public would be rude, and that would keep him in check.

“Um... maybe I have something to tell you, too.”

“Maybe...” he said, his eyes assessing me with sharp interest. I looked away, picking up the corner of the linen napkin and fidgeting with it.

“Yesterday, when you left, Kiara went crazy at the front door and I ran out to help her. Something seemed wrong and she knew it,” I began, stumbling over my words, as if rushing through it naturally would make it easier. “And then I heard...” I stopped myself. This was starting to sound like a jumbled mess of random information. I took a deep breath and looked into his eyes, which seemed clouded—like a churning ocean in the middle of a storm. “Serguei showed up at the door after you left.”