Chapter 157: Futile 1

BONNIE

I would tell him. Tonight, when the dust finally settled, and the estate grew so quiet that secrets could slip between the shadows, I would sit Lysander down and reveal everything. My father, the rumors of a curse, the dreams that haunted me. Every last piece. I just prayed he would look at me with something gentler than fear, or worse, that chilling calculation of a king weighing whether his mate had turned into a liability.

Fia’s hand rested warm against my shoulder, her thumb tracing a slow circle through the fabric of my sleeve. "You need to choose the moment," she murmured, her eyes tracking the door where Lysander had disappeared moments before. "But choose it soon. The ground is shifting under our feet, and I can feel it in my bones."

"I know," I whispered back. My throat felt tight, like I’d swallowed cotton. "I just... I need him to see me first. Not the monster. Not the weapon. Just... me."

"He does," Fia insisted, her grip tightening. "But secrets have weight, Bonnie. They bend the air around them until everything warps. If he finds out from someone else, or worse, if he sees it happen before you’ve prepared him—"

"I said tonight," I interrupted, sharper than I meant. I softened immediately, reaching up to touch her hand where it sat on my shoulder. "I promise. Tonight."

She studied my face for a long moment, searching for cracks in my resolve. Whatever she found there must have satisfied her, because she nodded once, sharp and final. "Good. Because something is coming, the goddess didn’t break her own rules to chat. She broke them because the board is about to flip, and she needed you to know which side you’re playing for. She needed to prepare you."

Those words echoed in the silence between us. I remembered the blank spaces where my memory should have been, the terrifying moment my powers curled around Fia’s throat, the invisible force crushing Johann’s windpipe. I remembered waking with blood beneath my nails, clueless as to how it got there. Fia was right. If I could become a stranger to myself, if I could hurt those I loved while wearing an empty mask, then keeping Lysander in the dark was no longer an option. He deserved the truth I had pieced together.

Before I could say a word, the door creaked open. Lysander entered, his shoulders hunched beneath the invisible weight of the day, his gaze locking onto mine. Something flickered in his eyes—a shadow of suspicion or knowledge—that made my stomach twist. He said nothing, just glanced at Fia, and then the regent’s mask settled over his features once more.

"It’s getting late," he announced, his voice rough from shouting earlier, or perhaps from holding back too many words. "Fia, you should head home. Your mate will be worried."

Fia pushed off from the wall where she’d been leaning, smoothing her hands down her sides. "You’re right. Cian has probably worn a hole in the floor by now." She turned to me, her expression softening. "Take care of yourself. And remember what we discussed."

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.

Lysander gestured toward the hallway. "I’ll walk you to the car."

He looked back at me, one eyebrow raised in silent question. He wanted me to come with. I shook my head, managing a small smile that felt like it might crack my face. "I’ll stay here. Thank you, though."

He hesitated, his hand lingering on the doorframe, his eyes searching mine again with that same unnerving intensity. For a moment, I thought he might demand to know what Fia and I had been discussing, or worse, that he already knew and was simply waiting for me to volunteer the truth. But he only nodded, once, and stepped back into the corridor, Fia following close behind. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving me alone with the silence and the antiseptic smell that still clung to the air.

I stood there for maybe thirty seconds, breathing in the quiet, trying to gather the courage I would need for tonight’s confession. Then the door burst open again.

Bradley strode in first, his face grim, his uniform still stained with the day’s violence. Behind him came a stream of retainers, sentinels and healers, maybe a dozen men and women, their faces pale and drawn, their eyes darting around the room like they expected ambush from the shadows. I recognized most of them from the infirmary hall, the ones who’d seen Willow’s head explode, the ones who’d watched me lose control. ℯ

Then I saw Ryker.

He came in last, jaw clenched so hard it looked ready to shatter, hands buried deep in his pockets. He was changed from the man I’d seen outside the library days before. Back then, he’d burned with righteous anger, threatening me with the full force of his outrage. Now he just looked broken, like someone who had carried a burden for too long and was finally buckling under its weight.

I remembered his words then, clear as a bell in my head. All retainers will suffer for your crimes. The ones who gave you a roof in this estate will be jailed and killed, most likely.

Two were dead now. Hanged by Johann’s order, their blood soaking into the courtyard stones while I screamed and failed to put them back together. Ryker had predicted it. He’d seen the writing on the wall while I’d been blind to everything but my own pain.

I ached to go to him, to cross the room and confess that he’d been right, that I was sorry for unleashing this storm on all of us. But my feet might as well have been nailed to the floor. When his gaze swept the room and landed on me, the look he gave froze me in place. It wasn’t anger. It was raw, unfiltered disgust, as if he’d bitten into something rotten.

He looked away immediately, turning his attention to Bradley, his hand drifting to his belt where his gun sat holstered. My heart skipped a beat. I’d seen that gesture before, the unconscious checking of a weapon, the preparation for violence.