What I Don't Say

What I Don't Say
Amelia

Nathan insists Ruthanne should see more of the pack. A tour will help her feel less like a shadow, he says, and Kane agrees. His reasoning is simple: She trusts you. More than anyone else here.

The word lingers in the air. I can’t even trust myself. How can I deserve trust when I can’t even trust myself anymore? Not since the black rock in the council chamber whispered, and reacted to my touch. Not since I started to wonder if I was unraveling like my storm weaver ancestors.

But I walk with them anyway, keeping a pace just behind. Nathan leads like he’s on parade, talking too much, smiling too wide. Ruthanne keeps her arms folded tight, her steps small. Quiet, watchful. But her emotions brush against me in waves I can’t ignore. Shame, despair, guilt. Beneath it, a faint flicker whenever Nathan leans close or says something absurd.

Nathan throws his arms wide. “Behold, the glorious square. Where children train in mud-based warfare.”
Right on cue, a boy hurls a dirt clod that smacks another square in the chest. Nathan clutches his own as if mortally wounded. “See? Brutal fighters already. Kane should recruit them.”
I shake my head, but Ruthanne’s lips twitch before she hides it.
Nathan notices. He grins like he’s won a war.

We move on. The clang of steel and shouts of warriors rise ahead. The training fields spread wide, wolves sparring with swords and claws alike, laughter mixing with grunts. Nathan puffs out his chest dramatically. “Best fighters in the region. Don’t tell Kane I said that; he already thinks too highly of himself.”
I shake my head, but Ruthanne’s eyes fix on the fighters. Her jaw tightens, and grief pools off her so thick I almost taste it. This tour is probably reminding her of what she lost. Of what she is missing.

Her home.

Nathan softens his voice as we keep walking. “You’ll see more later. We’ll go slower if you need.”
Ruthanne just dips her head.

Next the marketplace bustles with noise and color. Nathan continues his job as a tour guide, pointing out every booth with exaggerated flourish.
“Best smoked meat here. Best gossip over there. But if you want real dirt, talk to the soap sellers. They know everything.”
Ruthanne lingers at a jewelry stall. Her hand hovers over a necklace, brushing the chain before she pulls back.
“Pretty,” Nathan says. “Do you want it?”
Her answer is quick, sharp. “No.”

The guilt in her chest is thick as tar. She probably doesn’t believe she deserves it. I remember the feeling.
Nathan folds his arms. “Fine. I’ll wear it. Pearls would set off my eyes.”
I laugh, shaking my head. Ruthanne looks away, but not before I see the corners of her mouth lift.

At the far end, Hunter waves us down. His workshop reeks of dried blood. His apron is stained, his grin wide. “Luna! Perfect timing. Kane’s delivery of body parts is almost finished for you. At first, I was terrified, but it is actually going quite well. Almost done.”
I brace myself, then laugh. “Polish the claws,” I joke. “He likes them to shine.”
Hunter cackles. Nathan groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Fates save me. Maniacs. Both of you.”
I laugh harder because he’s telling the truth.
But Ruthanne’s reaction ripples like a storm. Fear. Horror.
Understandable. Not everyone finds taxidermied trophies normal. Kane and I live with darkness; Ruthanne has only survived it.

Nathan leans toward her, lips quirking. “Don’t worry. I won’t drop gift body parts unless you want me to.” For a heartbeat, Ruthanne almost smiles. Then she touches the scar running down her cheek, her reminder, and the smile dies.
Her despair slams into me so hard I almost stumble. She probably doesn’t believe Nathan could ever want her. Nathan will chase her with warmth, patience, and charm. She’ll keep drowning in guilt and despair. I could do something about it, but I would rather she ask me to do so, and I need to get a flicker of a positive emotion.

Then I see her. Tish, Nathan’s ex, walking toward us with quiet grace. Her eyes flick to Nathan, soften, then shift to Ruthanne. She smiles, her expression is a mixture of sadness and warmth.
“You must be Ruthanne,” she says gently. “I’m Tish.”
Ruthanne hesitates, then nods. “Nice to meet you.”
Tish’s smile holds, even if the edges tremble. “Don’t let him fool you. He’ll brag about how perfect he is, but the truth is he can’t even cook an egg.”
Nathan groans. “Lies. Slander.”
Tish chuckles. “You’ll see. He’s worse than he thinks, but he’s better than he knows.”
Her gaze lingers on Nathan for a moment, soft, sad, but full of something generous. Then she excuses herself, leaving Ruthanne blinking, surprised.

I feel all of it: Tish’s bittersweet strength, Ruthanne’s confusion, Nathan’s discomfort. By the time we head back, the weight of both of their emotions drags at me and my secrets are pressing tighter with each step.
The relic’s whisper coils in my thoughts. The black rock, humming with emotion, tucked away in the council building. It only stirs when I’m near it, but even now I feel the echo. Should I tell Kane? If I tell him, he’ll think I’m unraveling, cursed like every storm weaver before me.
What if I am? What if the storm inside me bursts and I hurt the people I swore to protect? Who stops me then? Kane? He wouldn’t. He’d destroy the world before he destroyed me.

I found Kane standing at the counter, sleeves rolled, knife glinting in his hand as he cut through venison like it was nothing. He moved with a predator’s patience, every slice neat, controlled, dangerous.
He didn’t look up when I entered, but his voice reached me, low and certain. “You’ve been quiet all day.”

I leaned against the doorway, folding my arms, pretending the weight pressing down on me wasn’t crushing. “It’s nothing.”
Finally, his gaze lifted. Dark. Obsessed. The kind of look that pinned me in place and made my skin shiver. “Don’t lie to me, Amelia. Not you.”
The knife landed on the counter with a solid thud as he walked toward me. His hand caught my chin, tilting my face up so I couldn’t avoid him. “I don’t care what shadows are clawing at you. You carry them with me, or you don’t carry them at all.”

I should tell him. About the relic. About the whisper in my head. About the fear that I’m unraveling like all the others before me. I know that I should. I know that I know it, but why am I so afraid to do it?
“I’m fine,” I whispered. The words burn in my throat. “Just tired,” I say.

His jaw clenched. For a long moment, I thought he might break me open anyway, drag the truth out no matter how deep I buried it. But instead, he kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle. Kane never was. His mouth claimed mine with the same dark certainty he ruled everything with, consuming and unrelenting, shadows I couldn’t see but could feel coiling in his presence, wrapping me in him.

I clutched at his shirt, letting him anchor me when my thoughts threatened to spiral. He kissed me like he was starving, like losing me would end him. And maybe it would.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, breath rough. “You are mine,” he said, voice gravel and fire. “Don’t forget it. I’ll drag you back from anything....even yourself.”
I nodded, though guilt still twisted inside me. If it happened again, I’d tell him. I swore it.
One more time. One more time, and then I will tell Kane about the voice.
And pray to the fates that I don’t become a burden.