Chapter 195
Chapter 195
The four-hour drive stretched into an agonizing eternity. Maren tried to maintain his self-imposed silence and the disguise of the cool, aloof stranger, but the proximity to Blue, combined with the torture of Black's lighthearted conversation and easy intimacy, was tearing at his nerves.
He watched through the shades as Blue occasionally rested his head against Black's shoulder to look at his phone, or as Black absentmindedly rubbed the spot on Blue's knee where his hand rested. Each small touch felt like a violation of the sacred, if broken, space Maren knew they once shared.
'The bond is broken,' Maren repeated internally, trying to ground himself. 'There is no residual feeling. This is just guilt and possessiveness. It is not love.'
But the intense, physical ache in his chest, the feeling of suffocation, was too real to be mere guilt. He had felt soul-death. This felt like a spiritual hunger—the intense, desperate longing of a soul for its lost counterpart.
He realized the severity of his miscalculation. He had thought that letting Blue go would bring him peace. Instead, the finality of the severing had ripped away the familiar pain of the bond, replacing it with an overwhelming, crushing void. The initial pain had been the bond fighting for its life; the current feeling was the soul mourning its death.
The car finally pulled up the familiar driveway of the glass mansion. The sight of home, usually a comfort, felt cold and mocking now.
"Home sweet home," Damon announced, parking the car.
Blue sighed, stretching his arm carefully to avoid straining his healing wrist, "It's good to be back."
Maren watched as Blue smiled at Black, a genuine, warm smile he hadn't directed at Maren in months. Black returned the smile, his dimples flashing.
"Welcome to my crazy life, Swan," Blue whispered, opening his door.
The moment they stepped out, the rest of the family—Nixxon, Vernon, Bianca, and Dante—poured out of the house.
Nixxon, looking exhausted but radiant, immediately rushed forward. "Blue! You actually came!" He launched himself into an embrace, careful of Blue's wrist.
"I promised, didn't I?" Blue said, hugging him tightly. "And congratulations, Papa! Where is my niece?"
"She's resting," Nixxon sniffled, pulling back, his eyes wet with affection. "Oh, Blue, I missed you so much."
Bianca and Dante quickly descended on Black, sizing him up with equal parts curiosity and suspicion, while Vernon maintained a careful distance, his arm linked firmly with Nixxon's.
Maren, stripped of his cool persona the second he saw Blue laughing with Nixxon, remained rooted by the car. His shades were instantly forgotten, pushed up onto his hair.
Blue walked to the trunk and opened it, pulling out the massive duffel bag.
"I didn't come empty-handed," Blue announced, setting the bag down. "I have gifts for everyone."
He started pulling out the rolled canvases, handing them out one by one: a chaotic, beautiful explosion of yellow and orange for Dante; a serene, deep-blue portrait of the ocean surface for Naomi; a vibrant, detailed portrait of Nixxon and Vernon laughing together for the couple; and an abstract, fiery piece of red and gold for Bianca.
"These are amazing, Blue!" Nixxon exclaimed, marveling at his painting.
Blue finally reached into the bottom of the bag and pulled out the final canvas. It was rolled, but unlike the others, this one was wrapped in a simple, untreated piece of rope.
He walked over to where Maren stood, silent and ashamed.
Blue did not look at Maren. He looked at the painting in his hands, his face utterly blank.
"This is for you, Maren," Blue said, his voice flat, devoid of warmth or malice. He held out the rolled canvas. "It's called 'Fractured Ice.' It's not a portrait. It's a memory."
Maren's hand trembled as he took the canvas. He clutched it, the rope pressing into his palm. He wanted to speak, to beg, to explain, but the words were lodged in his throat, suffocated by the cold emptiness in Blue's eyes.
"Thank you," Maren managed, the single word sounding like a death rattle.
Blue turned his back on Maren and walked away, linking his arm through Black's.
"Come on, Black. Let's find some space to hang these up before some unknown mermaid sets the place on fire," Blue said, his voice light and utterly dismissive.
Maren stood alone, clutching the canvas, feeling the invisible, crushing weight of Blue's final rejection. He knew, then, that the true horror of a severed bond wasn't the pain of separation, but the realization that his mate could look at him and feel nothing at all.
😊
Maren stood clutching the rolled canvas, the "Fractured Ice," as he watched Blue walk away. The sight of Blue linking arms with Black, moving with such casual ease and dismissiveness, was a torture Maren had not anticipated. His eyes, the usual powerful gold when he was emotional or angry now dimmed to a desperate amber, followed Blue as he disappeared into the mansion.
Maren slowly unbuttoned his ridiculous printed shirt, ripping off the dark shades he’d forgotten he was still wearing. He dropped the ensemble unceremoniously on the driveway, needing the coolness of the air on his skin. He needed to be himself—the Prince, the creature of instinct and sea—not this desperate, ridiculous human parody.
He quietly followed Blue into the house. He found a small group gathered in the master bedroom, where Nixxon and Vernon were resting with their newborn daughter.
Maren paused in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe, remaining in the shadows. He saw Blue approach the cradle, moving with a reverence Maren had never witnessed. Blue reached out and gently lifted the tiny baby, settling her carefully into the crook of his good arm, the splinted wrist forgotten.
The setting sun caught the gold highlights in Blue’s hair, bathing him in a soft, ethereal light. Blue's face, normally sharp with guardedness or fiery with humor, was utterly transformed. It was soft, unguarded, and achingly beautiful, lit up by a look of pure, gentle adoration Maren had once believed was reserved only for him.
Maren felt a crushing wave of longing, a pain that settled deep beneath the cold, empty wound of the severance. He wished, with a desperate ache that stole his breath, that they could have had this—a child, a future, a home—but the moment was poisoned. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he had made that beautiful possibility impossible.
Blue’s head dipped close to the baby's blanket. Maren strained to hear his soft voice.
"I'll draw a portrait of you, my little niece," Blue whispered, his thumb gently stroking the baby's cheek. "The most beautiful thing in the world."
Maren felt his chest tighten. 'He’s still an artist.'
Just then, Blue lifted his head. His eyes—sharp, clear blue—lasered directly into the hallway, fixing instantly on Maren’s shadowy figure. Blue’s face hardened instantly, the beautiful tenderness vanishing, replaced by a cold, familiar shield.
Blue didn't acknowledge Maren’s presence, didn't flinch, didn't even shift his gaze for more than a second. He simply turned back to the baby, effectively closing the door on the encounter. Maren had been seen, registered, and utterly dismissed.
Maren withdrew, a knot of fresh anguish tightening in his chest.
Later, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, Maren wandered down to the shore, drawn by the familiar, aching connection to the sea.
He saw Blue standing on the smooth rock where they had shared their first kiss, the same rock where Maren had almost succumbed to Lyra’s spell. Blue was holding his camera, snapping pictures of the magnificent sunset over the crashing waves.
Maren walked toward him, his bare feet silent on the wet sand. He positioned himself directly in front of Blue, blocking the view of the sunset and the entire expanse of the ocean. He was close enough that Blue would have to stop taking photos and acknowledge him.
Blue’s camera paused. He slowly lowered it, and without a word, took a single, deliberate step to his right, positioning Maren outside his frame. Blue then lifted the camera again, attempting to snap his picture.
Maren’s jaw tightened. He stepped to the right, blocking the sunset again.
Blue sighed, a sound of supreme, tired exasperation. He lowered his camera and finally looked at Maren, his face completely devoid of curiosity or interest.
"Do you need something?" Blue asked casually, as if Maren were a waiter or a confused tourist.
Maren swallowed, the coldness of Blue’s gaze paralyzing him. He took a deep, shaky breath.
"I... I found them," Maren said, his voice low and ragged. "The drawings. And the pictures. The ones you left in the bin before the ritual."
Blue shrugged, his expression not changing. "I was cleaning. I didn't need the clutter."
"They were beautiful," Maren insisted, taking a step closer. "They were full of light, and fire, and... life. They were nothing like the cold, broken thing you left for me today. The one you called 'Fractured Ice.'"
Maren slowly, deliberately, unrolled the canvas he had been carrying. The stark painting depicted a single, shattered block of ice, split down the middle by a thin, jagged line of silver lightning. It was cold, devastating, and heartbreakingly truthful.
Maren looked at the painting, then back at Blue, his gaze pleading. "I really fucked up, didn’t I?" he whispered, his voice thick with raw self-condemnation.
Blue glanced briefly at the opened painting, then shrugged again, his indifference a heavier blow than any punch.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Blue said, making no effort to hide his impatience. "Look, if you're done reminiscing about my trash, I'd like to continue with my photography. Excuse me."
Blue moved to step around Maren. This time, Maren didn't let him.
Driven by a desperate, instinctual panic—the raw fear of being completely erased—Maren gently reached out and clasped Blue’s good wrist.
The moment Maren’s skin connected with Blue’s, they both froze.
A sudden, undeniable spark of electric tingles, hot and immediate, zipped through both their bodies, traveling up Maren’s arm and down Blue’s spine. It was a dizzying, familiar jolt, a powerful, electric charge that had no business existing in the space between two severed mates.
Maren’s eyes went wide, the desperate amber exploding into brilliant, disbelieving gold.
Blue gasped, his detached façade shattering as a wave of involuntary sensation, so profound and undeniable, washed over him. He felt the echo of Maren's soul, not cold and empty as he expected, but alive, surging, and intensely present.
In that single, shocking touch, they both realized the devastating truth: the bond had only been suppressed, pushed into dormancy by magic and Blue's absolute conviction to feel nothing. It had never been broken.
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Author: Check out In-between Lines: Players Or Lovers.