Chapter 442 Rowan
Chapter 442 Rowan
Rowan - 112 years earlier
By the time I see the lights of the tavern through the trees, I'm wet, exhausted, and thoroughly reconsidering every decision I've made for the past eleven years.
The rain isn't heavy.
That would almost be preferable.
It's the irritating kind, fine enough to slip beneath my hood and cold enough to make the metal covering the lower half of my face feel like ice.
I wipe water from my eyes and keep walking.
Music drifts through the woods ahead.
Laughter.
Someone cheering.
A drumbeat coming from farther away, where the Noctra Vale is still raging despite the weather.
I'd passed the carnival earlier tonight.
Bright tents scattered between ancient trees, magical lanterns floating overhead, performers breathing colored flames into the night. Merchants selling enchanted trinkets and questionable potions. Demi-gods drinking enough to forget their own names.
Normally, I might have stopped.
Years ago, I definitely would have.
Tonight I don't.
I'm going home.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
Home.
The Institute.
I haven't called it that in years.
I haven't seen it since I walked out with rage burning so violently through my veins that half the torches in the eastern corridor ignited when I passed.
Thirty years old, and more than a decade of my life has been spent running from the place where I was born.
From the Council.
From my brothers.
From this fucking thing.
My fingers brush the muzzle.
Cold metal.
Familiar now.
I hated it at first.
No.
Hated isn't enough.
There isn't a word for what I felt when they put it on me.
When they decided my voice was too dangerous to belong to me anymore.
When I realized one careless sentence could strip another person of choice.
When the Council told me I couldn't be trusted without it.
Maybe they were right.
That was the worst part.
It took years before I stopped waking up and immediately reaching for my face in panic.
More before I stopped trying to rip it off.
More still before I understood that leaving hadn't made the power disappear.
Eventually, anger became exhaustion.
Exhaustion became acceptance.
And acceptance, slowly, became control.
Not over the voice.
Not enough.
Over myself.
Now I'm tired of running.
So I'm going back.
Unfortunately, going back requires another two days of travel, and unless I intend to sleep beneath a wet tree tonight, I need a room.
I push open the tavern door.
Warmth hits me first.
Then noise.
A lot of fucking noise.
The place is packed with people coming and going from the Vale. Wet cloaks hang from hooks beside the entrance. Tankards slam against wooden tables. Someone is singing badly near the fireplace while several others encourage him for reasons I cannot understand.
I take one step inside.
Then I hear—
“I'm simply saying, it seems inefficient for me to choose.”
My entire body stops.
No.
That voice.
Deeper than I remember.
Rougher.
But—
My head snaps toward the back of the tavern.
And there he fucking is.
Damien.
For several seconds, I can't move.
He's sitting in a booth against the far wall like he owns the entire building.
He's changed.
Gods, he's changed.
He's forty-four now, though nobody looking at him would guess it. Broader than I remember. Considerably broader. His white hair is longer on top, pushed carelessly away from his face, and tattoos disappear beneath the open collar of his black shirt.
His silver eyes gleam in the low light.
And apparently maturity has done absolutely nothing for his behavior.
There is a woman on each of his thighs.
Of course there is.
One is running her fingers through his hair.
The other has her palm flattened over his chest beneath the opening of his shirt.
Damien's arm is loosely around the waist of one while his other hand rests on the other's thigh, and he's wearing that lazy, canine-heavy grin that's probably responsible for a significant percentage of regrettable decisions made by women across this continent.
One woman laughs.
“You're greedy.”
“I prefer ambitious.”
“You asked to take both of us upstairs.”
“Exactly. Ambitious.”
The brunette traces one of the tattoos disappearing beneath his shirt.
“And what exactly are you planning to do with both of us?”
Damien leans back, considering.
“I have several ideas.”
“Several?”
“I've had ale. My creativity is flourishing.”
The blonde laughs and kisses his jaw.
He turns his face toward her.
“Is that a yes?”
“To what?”
“Both of you coming upstairs.”
She glances at her friend.
“I thought you were taking us home.”
“I can do that too.”
“Which home?”
“Whichever one is closest.”
The brunette laughs.
“You don't have a home nearby, do you?”
“Details.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
Then I take another step.
Damien's head turns.
Instantly.
Not gradually.
Not because he happens to glance toward the door.
His entire attention snaps directly onto me.
The smile disappears.
His hands stop.
His silver eyes lock onto mine from across the crowded room.
And for the first time in more than twelve years, I look at my brother.
Damien doesn't move.
Neither do I.
The blonde says something to him.
He doesn't hear her.
Then his arm drops from her waist.
“Up.”
She blinks.
“What?”
“Sorry, gorgeous. Family emergency.”
The brunette looks toward me.
“That's your family?”
“Unfortunately.”
I roll my eyes.
Damien's mouth twitches.
There.
That stupid fucking smile.
He says something quietly to the women, kisses each of them on the cheek, and they climb from his lap with varying degrees of disappointment.
“Another night?” one asks.
“Find me again and we'll negotiate.”
“You're terrible.”
“I've heard.”
They disappear into the crowd.
Damien immediately raises two fingers toward the bartender.
“Two ales.”
Then he points at the seat beside him.
Like twelve years haven't passed.
Like I'm not standing here wondering what the fuck I'm supposed to do with my hands.
I walk over.
Damien watches me the entire way.
I sit.
For several seconds, neither of us does anything.
Then he looks me over.
Head to toe.
His gaze catches on the muzzle.
Something dark moves through his expression.
He doesn't mention it.
Instead, his hands move.