Steel Rose

Chapter 61

Wren POV

He's gone mad.

Ptolemus paces around the room throwing daggers at the wall, only to have them fly back at him and for the process to start all over again. Of course, there is no actual target on the wall except the wood which is littered with dents and scratches.

"What did the wall ever do to you, my love?" I ask trying to add a joyful chirp to my voice. It doesn't come naturally to me. But it did to Isabelle.

Ptolemus only spars a single glance my way before he throws the knife back into the wall slightly more forcefully. I can already hear him say it. Don't call me that.

I sigh and turn away from him. My eyes land on the picture he keeps by his bed. It's Isabelle, and she's smiling. Her golden hair framing her annoyingly symmetrical bright tanned features. She is naturally a beautiful person, and I don't see any makeup on her in this picture, and I hate her for it. Her bright red dress and her gold jacket. Her long lashes and plump lips.

He's been doing this for the past two and half weeks. He tortures himself of where she can be. How the Monfort people can be hurting her. I myself do not indulge on such thoughts. Good. I hope she stays there. Of course I don't want her to be in pain. Just far away. Thousands of miles.

Ptolemus hasn't come as far as I would have hoped after Isabelle's departure. By now, I would have hoped he would spend more time in my arms, in my sights, while quietly grieving for his lost lover away from me.

I kick myself for being so naive. For dwelling into a little girl's childish fantasy. But I am not a child. I glance up at Ptolemus who has stopped pacing but instead grips the hilt of his dagger in a bone white fist, glaring at the carpet under his booted feet, grinding his teeth. His large arms flex tightly as he thinks. I feel my stomach curl. No. Definitely not a child.

Ptolemus does find comfort in me. For a few hours. Or a tense conversation. Or for a night, if he falls asleep or finds his own body too heavy to move. Move away from me.

He is careful to not say her name, but I can see it in his eyes when we speak. Which is why most of our time spent together is not spent using words. Disappointment layers in his eyes when I fail to meet his expectations in conversation. In attitude. In dress. Eyes ticking back and forth looking for someone in me who does not dwell. Looking for her.

When we started this I thought could handle it. I thought no strings attached would be easy. But I find myself wanting him to look at me. To see me. To want me because that is what people who love each other do. Do I love him? I think so. Does me love me?

I glance back up at Ptolemus who is still staring at the floor, arms crossed. Maybe on day he will.

______

I sit perched in my regular spot in the healers section of the training arena. Something I do more often now that I'm with Ptolemus.

I can't seem to keep my eyes off of him today, or anyday I suppose as I watch him spar with his father. Something he has been voluntarily doing now that Isabelle doesn't waste all his time. He has improved so much now that she is gone.

I let my eyes run over the way his arms move, noticing his flexing muscles or how the way he clenches his jaw. Or how his hands flow with precise movements. His hands.

His hands aren't soft, nor rough. They usually verge on being somewhere between cold and warm. Large. Not exactly gentle, but not aggressive either. I recall the day Isabelle caught us in bed together, and I inwardly flinch, my hand raising to touch my arm where he had grabbed me practically throwing me out of his room. The bruise lasted only a few days, and I know he didn't do it on purpose. He may be aggressive and prone to be confrontation, but he isn't like that.