Chapter 15
1281 Words
“Of course he’d wake up now,” I muttered, staring at the dock like it had betrayed me personally.
My gut did a backflip. Then another. Because of course.
I swore under my breath. Loud enough to earn a look from the crewman beside me.
Was I happy? Yes.
Was I furious? Yes also.
Leave it to Elio to rise from a coma just in time to ruin my perfect, stolen getaway.
Cheers followed, echoing across the waters. Even the seagulls scattered, startled by the sudden storm of voices.
I dared a glance.
The royal guards parted in reverent formation—an unspoken ripple of discipline—shoulders squared, hands clenched at their sides.
And through them stepped Elio Romero.
Alive. Awake.
And too soon.
He moved like nothing had touched him. No beast, no lightning, no coma. Like his body hadn’t once shattered in the forest for a sister the world would rather forget.
But I remembered.
His gait was measured. Military. His white ceremonial cloak trailing behind him like moonlight soaked in blood.
Behind him, Isolde walked like she belonged beside him.
Of course she did.
All perfect posture and venomous grace, clutching a gilded case of scrolls that made her feel important. Her dress was a sin against subtlety—wine-red and corseted so tight her waist could snap under pressure.
I kept my head down.
Cinder was gone. Gio stood here now. Ash-smudged cheeks. Cap tugged low. Heart thundering loud enough to split bone.
Don’t look at me. Don’t look at me. Don’t look—
“Elio, what is it?” Isolde asked, touching his arm.
He'd stopped.
I sneaked a look again to see he was flanked by two elite guards, Beta Quinn, and trailing behind him like vultures in silks—Isolde, Ezekiel, and a parade of high-ranking Elders. The whole envoy. All here.
I didn’t consider myself a spare most of the time because I wasn’t. If both of us were leaving the kingdom then there was no blood fated sire from Alpha Romero left here.
Elio’s golden eyes scanned the crew—slow, deliberate.
I forced my body still.
His gaze passed over me.
Kept going.
Then came back.
It burned. He kept sniffing the air in subtlety.
He took a step toward me. The dock wood creaked beneath his boot.
I swallowed fire.
“...You,” he said, voice low.
The quartermaster stepped forward quickly. “This one’s mine. Gio. Solid back. City boy. Cheap mouth, but works hard.”
“Gio,” Elio echoed with a deadpan look.
I grimaced.
He stared right at me.
But not in accusation.
Not even recognition.
His gaze was unreadable.
“I want him transferred to my detail.”
My pulse stopped.
“Apologies, Your Grace,” the quartermaster began. “But he’s dockhand crew, not envoy mate—”
"I wasn’t asking."
This wasn’t part of the plan but just like that, I was yanked out of the shadows and thrown into the light.
!! !! !! !! !! !!
Time passed by slowly when anxious or extremely worried.
He didn’t say a word to me as we boarded.
Just walked, regal and silent, while the rest of the crew parted like water around him.
I followed two steps behind.
Act like you belong. Speak only when spoken to.
Old lessons. Old instincts.
They assigned me a berth near the front of the ship, just beneath the navigation deck. Private enough to be respectful. Isolated enough to make a message.
It was a glorified storage closet. But I didn’t care.
I was on.
My heartbeat was still trying to come down. And I was already feeling seasick.
But I smiled into the cold metal wall because I made it.
Until the knock.
Three sharp taps.
I turned. Slow and careful. I already knew who it was.
The door creaked open and Elio stepped in.
Then closed the door behind him.
Then stared.
That silence. I knew it. It was a quiet judgement. Filled with a trunk load of disapproval.
I lunged at him.
His breath caught—a blink of raw surprise flitted across his face before he exhaled, like he’d been bracing for something else.
I buried my face into his chest with a tight, crushing hug. I didn’t care about the grit on my skin or the soot smearing his perfect, starched uniform. Let it stain. Let him feel what it cost me to get here.
“I was afraid for you,” I mumbled into the fabric, my voice crumbling on the edges. My tears soaked into him like confession.
He didn’t hug me back. Just rested his hands on my shoulders—firm, careful—and eased me away, like I was something fragile, or contaminated.
His eyes sharpened. Cold steel beneath the surface.
“You should be back at the castle.”
I barked a laugh, sharp and ugly. “Yeah, well... I was never good at staying where I’m told.”
He sighed like he was tired of my antics. "You'll just get in trouble. Again."
I snort.
“No, seriously.” His voice dipped low. “Did you even think? How can both blood fates of Vargrheim vanish to Erevar at the same time? Are we just leaving the whole damn realm on ‘be right back’?”
“That’s not fair,” I shot back. “How was I supposed to know you’d wake up now of all times?”
His eyes scanned me—slow and clinical. The soot smeared across my jaw. The ill-fitting cap. The look of someone who ran here in the dead of night, heart first, sense last.
He looked down at his once-pristine shirt—now smeared in ash and pinched the bridge of his nose like the thought physically hurt.
"I worked too hard for this. Did you think i was going to let a little sleep get in the way?"
I stared at him. Silent. Because...yes. I did think that.
I blinked. “You could’ve stopped me.”
His jaw flexed. “I’m stopping you now.”
But we both knew he wasn’t. Not really.
“You’re better than this,” he said. "Challenging Father, Leaving the castle without supervision, , stealing clothes..."
I smiled. “You’re wrong. I’m exactly this. He gave the opportunity to Isolde instead of me when he thought you couldn't make it. Some spare I am." I say half mockingly.
"You're not a spare." He snapped, "You're my sister."
"And this sister is begging you not to say anything till we reach Erevar. I don't ask for much. Just let me be an unofficial part of this. I hate who i am in Vargrheim. I'm stiffled. I'll soon be shopped off to Zulu’s castle so just let me have my way this once?"
I put out an embarrassing pout.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t have to.
Because he understood.
He reached into his coat. Pulled something small.
A pistol.
It was sleek, black, and polished.
Mine.
After I shot at Ezekiel and missed his fat sanctimonious skull, it was seized.
“You dropped this,” Elio said.
I took it. Slowly.
And smiled.
“Still have bad aim?” he added.
“No promises,” I said, tucking it into my belt. “Especially not if Isolde keeps breathing near me.”
He chuckled. But it didn’t reach his eyes.
“You’re not out of danger,” he said. “Father will kill me for letting you on board.”
“No,” I say. “He won’t."
He tilted his head.
"We both know he won’t." I whisper with a smile.
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