The Nechi's Wife

✣ chapter thirty-two ✣

Mam apologized to me every day, hugged me much tighter than she had in the past. She hadn't meant to hurt me. She hadn't meant to be so cruel. Sometimes, when I wandered the corridors at night, unable to sleep, I'd pass by their room and hear her sobs, Baba's soft words of comfort.

But it was too late now. We were tied to them, just like they'd wanted. And now, it was just as I wanted too.

"We cannot risk you being in danger again," Baba said, patting my back. "Arania isn't safe. We should never have involved you in our politics."

I gazed at Baba, shaking my head, "He must know he has a child. He must."

"We just need to think about this carefully, flower," Mam interjected. "We don't want to do anything rash."

I wanted to be rash. I didn't want to be strategic or careful anymore. I wanted to see my husband, I wanted him to know I was having his child. I wanted our family to be together again. And I would make sure it happened. I had to.

...

Flynd's POV

Every day was beginning to feel the same. I'd start the morning waking up on an empty bed, half of it cold and untouched. I'd change into something presentable—on my own—I had told the servants to stop coming a while ago. And then I'd wander to Father's office, wading through my surroundings, waiting for something to do.

Today was no different. I made myself presentable, it was the only thing I'd managed to still care about. And I walked out the door. It was hard to pay attention to anything lately, but I did notice how grey-cast the corridors looked. Cold, hard stone, shadowy from the grey Witylt skies. It was no wonder Ayan hated it here upon arriving. I imagined how cold she must have been those first few weeks, how uncomfortable and homesick. At least she was home now. I could only hope she was enjoying the Meretian sun, frolicking, glowing. Beautiful.

Father smiled hesitantly at me as I entered his office, "Flynd, good morning."

I shrugged and sat across from him. The floor looked especially cold today. Cold and sad. Grey. Even the walls. The desk. All of it was grey.

"Can I help with anything?" I asked. I just needed him to give me something to do. My productivity had gone up considerably and I could tell he was running out of tasks for me. But I needed them. I needed something else to think about.

"I'm sure you can," Father said. "But I don't think you should."

His expression was soft, nonjudgmental and calm, but irritation burned in my chest nonetheless. It was easy for him to say that when he'd never been in love. When he'd never lost anyone he truly cared about. It was easy for him to say that when he'd never even liked Ayan to begin with. "Don't tell me what I should and shouldn't do," I spat. "I don't need to be coddled."

"You didn't used to yell at the servants before."

I grimaced, remembering last week when one of them had spilled hot tea on me. I couldn't remember who was to blame, the servant for turning the corner without warning or me for incessantly looking at the ground. I had lost myself in my anger. As if trapped at the stake, engulfed by an overwhelming, fiery fury.

"I apologized," I muttered, feeling the weight of shame inching closer. "I apologized."

"You didn't used to yell at them before."

"And so what?" I snapped. "Maybe I've changed."

"You have," he growled.

The irritation and anguish was dizzying, all-consuming. And for some reason, Father looked a little bit blurrier than when I'd arrived. I hadn't eaten breakfast today. Or yesterday. I hadn't gone outside in months. I was out of shape. I was a dead man walking.