Chapter 6: What He Took, What He Couldn’t
1313 Words
Kalas chose the moment carefully.
I would have recognized that later—when I replayed everything in my head, cataloguing the mistakes like scars. But in the moment, it felt almost… accidental.
The evening was thick with heat, the kind that made the air feel syrupy and slow. Lila had been called away to assist the babaylan, and Rajah Alon was in council—something tense enough that no one would interrupt him unless blood was already spilled.
Which left me alone.
I was at the edge of the longhouse compound, watching the forest darken into layers of shadow. Fireflies blinked in and out like nervous thoughts. My wrist—the mark—ached faintly, as if responding to something beneath the soil.
“You shouldn’t wander unguarded.”
I didn’t jump this time. Progress.
“Kalas,” I said evenly. “Do you enjoy proving Lila right?”
He stepped out from the trees, unarmed, hands open. The casualness was deliberate—nonthreatening, intimate.
“I enjoy opportunity,” he replied. “And you’ve been glowing since the ritual.”
I folded my arms. “That’s not flattering.”
“It’s honest.” His gaze dipped briefly to my wrist. “The forest marked you deeply.”
“It burned,” I said. “If you’re fishing for poetry.”
He smiled. “Pain is the forest’s favorite language.”
That set my teeth on edge.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“To talk.” He tilted his head. “To offer you something.”
“I already have protection.”
His smile thinned. “You have a cage with beautiful intentions.”
Anger flared. “Alon is not—”
“Not cruel?” Kalas finished softly. “No. But he is bound. You felt it, didn’t you? The way the forest pulled at him.”
I said nothing.
He took a step closer. “He cannot choose you without losing himself.”
“And you can?” I challenged.
His gaze sharpened. “I would lose nothing.”
That was the problem.
The forest shifted—branches creaking, leaves whispering. The mark on my wrist pulsed, warm and insistent.
Kalas noticed.
“Ah,” he murmured. “It calls louder at night.”
I backed away instinctively. “Don’t.”
“I haven’t touched you,” he said calmly. “Yet.”
The word lingered between us.
“You think because the forest warned you, you’re untouchable,” he continued. “But it didn’t forbid everything. Only force. Only theft.”
My pulse hammered. “What are you suggesting?”
“That you choose,” he said. “Me. Or him. Or yourself.”
His hand lifted—slowly, deliberately—and hovered inches from my marked wrist.
“If you let me,” he said quietly, “I can teach you what the forest is asking of you. Without chains. Without vows sworn by dead men.”
The temptation was sharp—not desire, exactly, but freedom. The promise of movement instead of restraint.
And then—
“No.”
The word cut clean through the night.
Rajah Alon emerged from the shadows like something summoned by fury itself. His presence was immediate, overwhelming—anger held on a leash so tight it trembled.
“Kalas,” he said. “Step away.”
Kalas’s hand dropped, though his smile returned, slow and infuriating. “I was invited.”
Alon’s gaze flicked to me. “Were you?”
I swallowed. “No.”
Something in Alon’s expression fractured—relief, rage, something deeper.
“That answers that,” he said.
Kalas sighed theatrically. “You guard her like a treasure you refuse to open.”
“And you covet what you do not understand,” Alon shot back.
Kalas’s eyes gleamed. “I understand desire.”
Alon moved then—fast, decisive—placing himself directly between us. His body was heat and solidity, his back to me, his attention fully on the threat in front of him.
“She is not yours,” Alon said. “Not now. Not ever.”
Kalas’s gaze slid past him, meeting mine one last time. “The forest disagrees.”
Then he stepped back, hands raised. “For tonight.”
He vanished into the trees, laughter trailing behind him like a cut.
Silence fell hard.
Alon didn’t turn immediately. His shoulders were tight, breath controlled.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No.”
“Did he touch you?”
“No.”
A beat.
“Did you want him to?”
The question was quiet. Dangerous.
I answered honestly. “I wanted what he promised. Not him.”
Alon turned then.
Up close, the restraint I’d admired was cracking. His eyes were dark, his jaw rigid, his breathing no longer even.
“That is how he hunts,” he said. “He offers freedom, then claims its cost.”
“And you?” I asked softly. “What do you offer?”
He hesitated.
“My protection,” he said. “My life, if needed.”
“That’s not the same as choosing,” I said.
“I cannot choose you,” he said harshly. “Do you think I don’t know that?”
The air between us tightened, heavy with things unsaid.
“I feel it,” he continued, voice low. “Every time you look at me like I am something other than a king. Every time the forest pulls toward you through my blood.”
“Then why are you still standing here?” I whispered.
“Because if I step away,” he said, “I will never come back.”
My heart ached.
I reached for him before fear could stop me.
My hand closed around his wrist—solid, warm, real.
Alon froze.
“You told me once,” I said, “that this world doesn’t bend because a woman wishes it.”
His gaze dropped to where I touched him.
“But I bend,” he said. “And that is the danger.”
Slowly—carefully—he lifted his other hand and cupped my face. His thumb hovered at my cheek, waiting.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
I didn’t.
His thumb brushed my skin—light, reverent—and the forest responded. Leaves rustled, fireflies flared brighter, the air thickening with something ancient and approving.
When he kissed me, it was restrained only by will.
No rush. No claim.
Just lips pressed to mine like a question he’d waited years to ask.
I exhaled into him, my fingers curling into the cloth at his waist. The kiss deepened—not hungry, but aching. Controlled. As if he were memorizing me rather than consuming me.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.
“This,” he said hoarsely, “cannot continue.”
“I know.”
“And yet—”
“And yet,” I echoed.
His hand slid from my face to my wrist, brushing the forest’s mark. Heat flared—not pain, but recognition.
The forest whispered.
Bound does not mean broken.
Alon stiffened.
“It speaks when I touch you,” he murmured.
“Maybe,” I said softly, “it’s telling you something.”
He closed his eyes.
When he stepped back, it was with visible effort.
“Go inside,” he said. “Lock the door. If Kalas returns—”
“He won’t,” I said.
“How do you know?”
I looked toward the forest, listening to the quiet satisfaction humming through it.
“Because the forest chose,” I said.
“And tonight,” I added, meeting his gaze, “it chose you too.”
Alon watched me go, his expression torn between duty and desire.
Behind him, unseen—
The forest smiled.
- Writer
