Steel Rose

Chapter 65

Wren POV

Sweat drips down his temple, his eyes sharp and focused sending a flare of fluster through me. He grunts with every thrust, his muscles tightening and squeezing in the most perfect way. His lips part as he heaves a breath and pushes his sweat matted hair from his face. His beautifully crafted face. His bare chest expands, hands shaking, sucking in large gulps of air with every moment he gets.

"There you go, Ptolmeus."

He smirks before pursing his lips in concentration. He moves again. My breath catches.

Evangeline continues to taunt her brother on the training floor, both of them unyielding to each other. Unwilling to surrender. They're both breathing irregularly and bleeding from any odd sort of scrap and bruise they've given each other, but the look in their eyes are the same. Hard and focused.

His son's eyes look like that too. They would have the same pale skin and the silver hair. Only his son, Darcy, had soft little wisps of hair. Will that boy grow up without a father because of me? Will he grow to hate him because he'll believe he was abandoned? Unwanted and unloved.

No. Don't think about that.

Ptolemus would have dropped everything to go see his son, and raised hell if anyone tried to stop him. I wonder if he would have left it all behind. Everything and everyone. His crown. His parents. My eyes shift back to Evangeline. His sister. All that strength and power for a wailing infant. Would he go because the child is his own blood. Or because it's her's.

I think I know my answer. I did his family a service. Darcy, by law of Norta and the Rift, is not required to take his father's name or inherit anything. He was born out of wedlock. He is a simple bastard. He does not matter. The only ones that do, are the ones he has with Elane. But that won't happen for years to come. If at all.

Evangeline waves me down as the siblings limp to the benches. I didn't see who won but by the triumphant smirk on Evangeline's face, I willing to bet it was her. I make my way towards them, trying to ignore the way Ptolemus pointedly looks away from me. It would have once bothered me that when he is sober, he pretends that I don't exist. I am nothing but a walking, living, constant reminder of his shame. The worst mistake he has ever made. But once he finds himself a fresh bottle of liquor, I am suddenly, the best person he has ever met. He dips into his bottles less often now, I notice, now that he finds himself a new purpose. A new distraction.

Beating just about every person he trains with within an inch of life.

It is not hard to come to the conclusion that his parents have most likely cut their son off for the sake of saving him from himself. So, now cut off from the release he could once find in his precious drinks, he now finds in fighting. Training. The next best thing. Severe bodily harm to their subjects is not high on King Volo or Queen Larentia's concern list, if there at all. Injuries can be healed. Their first born is a warrior, a perfect killer. Training to do what he was born to do probably only makes them proud.

Evangeline nudges her brother in the ribs, as I reach for him. He casts her an annoyed glance, but relents as he turns back towards me. I almost hesitate when I start at his temple, to heal the gash across his forehead. He locks eyes with me, sensing my hesitation. An irrational thought passes through me, as I picture the holes burning through his son's face. No way he can read my mind. No way he would know.

I run my fingers over his jaw, fixing a few broken teeth. Then over his neck, and his chest. The splintering in his ribs heal, and the bruises across his hands disappear. He jerks away as soon as I finish and stands up so quickly I almost fall back from my crouch position.