RISING (#2, of Crows and Thorns)

Chapter 127

He swept a deft foot and kicked my feet out from beneath me—

I lurched sideways, losing balance—

He whirled around, a hand at my throat, and slammed me bodily up against the wall, his fingers strangling in their hold as he roared into my face, "You are my heir, Varen. My heir!" He thumped the back of my head against the wall—whack, whack, whack—with every word. My hands grappled at his. Jeroen's cheeks burned red and his eyes were feral. "You are my heir because Gratian, my true heir, was murdered. Killed by a beast you couldn't stop or save him from. You are an heir because my son died!"

The world went white and silent as his condemnation echoed inside my mind.

And it seemed to take an eternity for me to understand.

I couldn't breathe.

And it wasn't because my father's fingers were throttling my neck.

Every word ruthlessly stabbed my heart with a blade carved from guilt.

There it was. His truth. His heartache. His blame.

And I was the one responsible for it.

My father's rage slowly petered out as mine did too.

The rage that botched his face faded as his expression collapsed into something I'd never seen him wear before.

Anguish. Grief. Helplessness.

Heaviness, leadened with emptiness, dragged through my limbs, pulling me down, down, down, a spiraling sensation as if I was being pulled into the earth as wretchedness swamped me.

All that could be heard in the room was our rasping breaths.

His grip around my throat eased and gentled. He shifted his hand to the back of my head, his fingers pushing through the sweat-crusted locks as he tipped his forehead to mine. Silver hair tickled my temples and his hot breath leaking misery fanned my cheeks.

I felt his agony all the way inside like I'd swallowed it.

I knew what he felt because I lived with it every day.

His quietly spoken voice cracked with raw pain. "Your brother wouldn't have hesitated in marrying Irma, despite not being in love with her. Love doesn't come into it, Varen. Love is for the weak as our ancestors were when they lost the Great House. Neither my family nor my House is weak. You will marry Irma..." And then he said the one thing that could break me, the only reason I'd ever agree to marry Irma without fighting my fate. "...You will do it for Gratian because he can't. You owe him."

Hope obliterated into tiny shards and my heart cleaved in two.

Gratian was the only person I'd ever give Tabitha up for.

My brother had died because I'd been adrift in red-hazed fury over Irma's betrayal.

For how long we breathed in each other's pain, I wasn't sure. My father gently squeezed the nape of my neck in apology, released his hold on me, and straightened as he stepped back, clearing his throat and blinking the moisture from his eyes.

He busied himself by tugging the cuffs of his blazer, smoothing his sleeves, brushing a hand over his shoulders and lapels; pushing his fingers through his disarranged shock of hair until he was once again his impeccably groomed self.

It was deathly silent inside the room.

Apart from the heartache thundering in my ears.

Jeroen spun around on his heels about to head to the door, but he hesitated, his expression softening and becoming lost. His calloused fingertips tapped his thigh as he took a moment to consider how to say something, but whatever it was, it seemed he changed his mind when his features hardened. He looked at my face but couldn't meet my eye when he said quietly but with an unyielding tone. "You will be packed and ready by tomorrow morning to join us at the Szarvas estate."

My head felt as heavy as concrete when I nodded.

"When Marton and I finalize the contract you will sign your name. Do you understand?"

I nodded once more.

The door shut behind my father, and I sagged against the wall, my feet barely able to support my fatigued body, riddled with sorrow.

I was a fool for thinking I could live my life the way I wanted to, that I could marry a sweet servant girl. My life had never been my own to dictate how I wanted to live.

I shoved off the wall and staggered to the fire mantle, snatching up the bottle of whiskey. Unscrewing the cap, I poured the fiery liquid into my mouth without the use of a glass, letting the burn slap my throat, punch my gut, willingly letting it destroy my mind as I guzzled it down.

The room began to spin into a smear of garish colors. The floor pitched and rolled beneath my feet.

And everything caught up with me.

The day spent hunting the Hemmlok Forest draining my body of energy.

My father's wrath and raw grief.

My dead brother.

Guilt. Torment. Despair.

My heartbreak.

I'd barely put the whiskey down on the bedside table before I fell backward and hit the waterbed with a smack. The force of my striking body created a wave that undulated beneath me. The world went pitch-black as I passed out, willingly embracing the quiet darkness and nothingness of slumber. Where agony couldn't follow me.