by Lexi C. Foss
She returned the kiss, her arms twining around his neck. “Thank you.”
He responded by deepening their embrace, his tongue sliding into her mouth in a distracting manner that took her breath away. It left her light-headed and dizzy, causing her to sway into him. He chuckled, the sound delightfully knowing and underlined in arrogance. Tom knew his effect on her.
Hmm, two could play this game. And she could use the diversion to keep her mind off the afternoon’s events. Plus, it would benefit her later.
“There’s a field beyond those trees,” she said, nodding to her right. “I don’t suppose you’re up for a little sparring in the snow?”
“An invitation to roll around on the ground and soak that pretty white sweater you’re wearing?” He pretended to consider. “It’s almost as if you’re trying to flirt with me.”
“Flirting?” She scoffed at that. “A lady never flirts. She seduces.”
His lips quirked up at the edges. “In that case, consider me aroused, Miss Wakefield.”
“There’s just one thing,” she said, stepping away from him and testing the paved walkway beneath her flat shoes.
He arched a brow. “A challenge, asset?”
She smiled. “You’ll have to catch me first, arse.” She took off toward the tree line, channeling all her hurt and rage into her pounding heels, determined. Just as her father had taught her—to use her emotions as strengths.
I’m proud of you, she imagined him saying. I’ll always be with you, love.
I know, she whispered back at him. Forever in my heart.
The bonfire blazed in the cool air, sending dancing embers into the midnight sky around them. Each spark resembled a memory on the breeze, all centered around one man—Aidan. He affected the hearts of so many, his words and wisdom living on in everyone he touched.
Amelia added another paper to the fire, smiling through her tears as it sizzled.
This had been Luc’s idea—to write down all their fondest recollections of Aidan and celebrate his life in a positive manner. The funeral and burial this afternoon fulfilled the Wakefield legacy, something Aidan would have wanted because of his ties to Amelia’s mother. Tonight was for everyone else, to grieve with one another and remember a man who impacted so many.
“What memory did you share?” Tom asked softly, his arms coming around her waist as he rested his chin on her shoulder.
“One of Aidan dancing with my mother,” she whispered. “They caused quite a stir with the tango during the Summerlins’ Ball when I was twelve. Society frowned upon my mother for remaining a widow and taking a clear consort.”
“They never married?”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t Aidan’s style, nor did my mother wish to remarry. I think they rather enjoyed the forbidden, too.” Her lips quirked. “They truly loved one another. I hope…” She swallowed, her gaze going to the stars. “I do hope they found each other again.”
Tom brushed his lips against her jaw, hugging her close. “I would never stop searching for you,” he whispered. “You know that, right?”
Amelia relaxed against him on a sigh. “I do.”
The somber atmosphere surrounding them was a stark contrast to her memories of this estate. But the last few days had been spent grieving the lives lost. The Elders held a memorial in Hydria yesterday for the deceased, while Issac took care of the arrangements for Astasiya and Aidan here.
Anya’s memory was celebrated with the Hydraians who lost their lives to Jonathan’s Sentinels. While she served as a consort to Aidan for several decades, his feelings for her never reached the deepest levels of his heart. That love remained for Amelia’s mother. And Luc had confirmed Aidan’s dying wish would have been to be buried on the Wakefield Estate.
Such a complex history.
One that raised so many morbid thoughts.
Would Amelia choose to be buried here with Eli and her family, or elsewhere with Tom? What about Luc? Balthazar? Alik? Issac and his progeny? She shivered, the notions leaving her cold inside.
A war was coming and not everyone would survive.
I’ve already lost so much, and we’ve only just begun.
“Write another memory,” Tom encouraged, his lips at her ear. “I want to hear more.”
“Do you fancy anything in particular?” she wondered, turning in his arms, thankful for the distraction.
His hands settled on her hips. “One of your favorite moments.”
“Him meeting you,” she said immediately, her lips quirking. “You were terrified.”
He looked positively affronted. “I was not terrified.”
She arched a brow. “You called him ‘sir.’ ”
“To be polite.”
“And you bowed.”
“Because he’s old and I assumed that was his preference.”
She shook her head with a snort. “You were practically shaking.”
“And this is a fond memory?” he countered, humor in his voice. “I’m second-guessing our relationship, asset.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You love me, you arse.”
“Only when you’re nice to me.”
Another snort. “You mean only when I straddle you.”
“That, too.” He pressed his mouth to her ear. “Especially when naked.”
She giggled, a sound only Tom seemed to inspire.
He kissed her neck before pulling back with a smile, his nose nuzzling hers. “Better, sweetheart?”
Amelia nodded, tears welling in her eyes again, this time happy ones. “You always know how to pull me back from the darkness.” Soft words, spoken only for him.
He cupped her cheek, bending to press his lips to hers. “I love you, Amelia.”
“I love you, too,” she whispered, returning his embrace.
The clearing of a throat had her glancing left to find Tristan standing awkwardly beside the fire, his expression sheltered. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if you’ve seen Issac?”
Tom’s arm slid around Amelia’s waist as she moved to his side. “I’ve not seen my brother since the burial,” she admitted. “I think he wanted to be alone.”
Tristan nodded, palming the back of his neck. “I’ll see what I can do.” He left without another word, his shoulders hunched in a way that hurt her heart.
“I hate this,” she whispered, her focus shifting to Luc as Tristan passed him. The stoic expression on her older brother’s face pained her even more. He was doing everything he could to hold it together, at the expense of his own sorrow. His father, a man he’d spent over three thousand years with, and he couldn’t even grieve him. Because Luc was the one everyone relied on, the King they revered and looked up to for guidance.
Balthazar stood at his side, nursing a glass of Aidan’s favorite scotch. His eyes lifted to hers, understanding flickering in his dark depths. Amelia could only imagine the thoughts he overheard from his best friend, not to mention the pain he had to be harboring deep inside.
Luc nodded at whatever Balthazar said, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets. Both men had lost their ties but remained in button-downs with jackets. A show of respect. Or perhaps they hadn’t desired to change.
“He hates me,” a soft voice said to Amelia’s left. Eliza stood just off to the side, dressed in a black dress, her long hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her ebony gaze locked on Luc, her lower lip trembling. “I-I didn’t mean for this to happen. I d-didn’t meant to distract him.”
“Oh, darling, no.” Amelia pulled the woman into a hug. “This isn’t your fault. He knows that.”
Eliza shook her head, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He won’t even look at me. He hates me.”
“No, it’s not you.” She glanced at Balthazar, but his focus was on Luc, who appeared to be saying something important. “There’s a lot going on right now. He’s just trying to keep everyone organized.”
Another shake of her head as she pulled back, her attention shifting to the ground. “You didn’t see t
he way he looked at me after… after I woke up.” She meant as an immortal, causing Amelia to frown.
Luc had been lost in funeral arrangements for the last three days, yet he made time to visit Eliza? That alone said everything.
“He doesn’t blame you,” Amelia promised. “He just has a lot going on right now.”
Eliza didn’t seem to hear her, the words spilling from her mouth on a wave of shame. “Aidan would be alive if I hadn’t been fighting with Luc. I wouldn’t have gotten shot. I wouldn’t have died. He would have been there for his father. He—”
“Would have died regardless of your interference,” Luc finished for her, having approached while Eliza wasn’t paying attention. “Not everything in this world revolves around you, Eliza. Aidan died protecting Lizzie and her unborn child. He would not appreciate you blaming yourself for his chosen actions.”
The admonishment in his voice made Amelia cringe and Eliza freeze.
“Luc,” Balthazar started, but a glance from her brother silenced whatever he’d been about to say.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Eliza whispered, then turned and fled for the house.
Amelia sighed and gave her brother a stern look. “That wasn’t very nice.”
He cocked a brow. “She’s a selfish brat who only thinks about herself, Amelia. It is neither my job nor my responsibility to cater to her needs. She needs to grow the fuck up. I have too many other tasks to handle to be concerned about her feelings right now.”
The harsh summarization shocked her. This was not her brother but a man relying on cold practicality to survive. He’d turned off his emotions to function. “Avoiding your pain isn’t the solution,” she advised softly. “Perhaps you should heed your own advice and realize Aidan wouldn’t appreciate that, either.”
A stoic expression met her words. Followed by an emotionless blink that broke her heart. “What our people need is a strategic leader who can focus and sharpen the pain into a plan for vengeance, not an emotional son who just lost his father. There will be time for mourning. That time is not now.” He left her gaping after him, her hands fisted at her sides.
“I’ll talk to him,” Balthazar murmured.
“It shouldn’t be on you to—”
“Amelia,” he cut in gently, cupping her cheek. “We all have our purpose. You, more than anyone, understand mine. And what your brother needs right now is a friend. He’ll be all right. I promise.”
She stared at him for a long moment, reading between the lines. If anyone could provide Luc solace, it was Balthazar. Not because of his gifts, but because of his way with words. His heart. His presence.
“Take care of him,” she said softly, allowing him to see the worry in her gaze. “He can’t bottle this up forever.” Or his treatment of Eliza would just be the beginning.
Balthazar’s smile was sad. “Honestly, love, I’m more worried about your other brother.”
Issac.
Her heart panged heavily in her chest. His face during the funeral… She swallowed. God, he looked a right mess. “I don’t know how to help him,” she admitted.
“I don’t think any of us can,” he replied. “But I’ll never stop trying.” With that, he wandered off after Luc, who had disappeared beyond the trees.
Tom folded Amelia into his arms, his cheek against her hair. “One day at a time, sweetheart,” he whispered. “We’ll take this one day at a time.”
She hugged him back, thankful for his strength. Thankful for his life. Thankful for his love.
Somewhere, Aidan smiled. She felt it in her very soul, his approval radiating over her. Or maybe it was all in her head. But she swore she heard him murmuring positive words, praising her choice.
“He liked you, you know,” she murmured.
“Who? Balthazar?”
She chuckled, shaking her head. “No. Well, him, too. But I meant my father. He liked you.”
Tom stared down at her, his eyes holding a touch of disbelief. “Are you sure about that?”
She nodded. “He told me during our holiday in Montana. Nothing profound, just a statement, that he liked you.” She smiled, tears gathering in her eyes. “I think I should write that down. To add to the fire.” Because it was a memory she would cherish always.
Just three words.
I like him.
Her gaze lifted to the starry night again. You’re forever in my heart, Papa. And Tom will always guard it.
Another wave of acceptance settled over her, warming her heart. Her father was definitely there, watching over her, hugging her with his soul.
I like him, she wrote on the paper Tom had handed to her. With a watery smile, she wrote beneath it, Yeah, I like him, too.
Tom watched Amelia add her memory to the fire, his chest aching for her. For everyone. For the losses created by his father. It took everything within Tom not to outwardly react, to show his anger, his fury over everything Jonathan Fitzgerald had done.
To Amelia.
To Stas.
To Lizzie.
To Aidan.
To the Hydraians.
I have to kill him. A verdict underlined in blood. There’s no other alternative.
Jonathan Fitzgerald had created Tom to be the perfect soldier, a master on the chessboard. Those traits were about to bite the old man in the ass because Tom would be using them to the fullest extent to seek justice.
His father had to pay for what he’d done.
And Tom would be the one to deliver the punishment. It was his duty as the man’s son.
He plucked a paper from the pile to jot down his own memory, but it wasn’t of Aidan. No, he wrote about his own father. About the man who crafted the weapon Tom had become.
Five words, spoken to him several times over his lifetime. Always a taunt punctuated by a threat.
Where would you go, son?
Tom finally had an answer.
To hell.
And he would take his father with him. Bloody, screaming, and begging for mercy.
Folding the paper carefully, he dropped it into the fire and watched it burn, picturing Jonathan Fitzgerald’s agonized face dancing in the flames.
Soon.
“What memory did you choose?” Amelia asked, her arm coming around his waist.
“I created a new one,” he murmured. “With a very satisfying ending.”
20
Issac
“There are certain aspects of my former life that I miss. One such item is the ability to lose myself to oblivion. Immortality heals the body too quickly to experience inebriation, and after the day I’ve endured, I could use the old-fashioned remedy.”
—Issac Wakefield
Vita mutatur, non tollitur
“You would have liked it here, Aya,” Issac murmured, his gaze on the stars above her grave. “It’s been a while since I visited—perhaps a decade ago? We try to keep our presence here quiet, to not draw attention to ourselves for obvious reasons. Amazing what an annual contribution to charities will do to keep the public satisfied.”
He took another fortifying sip of his—he eyed the label—whiskey. Ugh, he’d clearly hit rock bottom if this was all he had left of his stash. But he couldn’t seem to drink the liquor fast enough.
“I want to feel numb, you see.” He took another sip. “But this shite isn’t doing it, darling. It’s just burning my throat and insides at this point.” He couldn’t remember the last time he imbibed such copious amounts of alcohol. Perhaps after he turned Tristan? The two had gone on a drinking binge for entertainment purposes. It ended in a tangle of blondes.
Issac snorted. “That’s not happening again. Ever.” Another drink, followed by a sigh. The ground was cold beneath his jacket. Dead. Because it contained all his loved ones—Aidan, Mum, Aya.
“Fuck, I miss you,” he whispered, his chest aching. “I miss all of you.” At least with his mum, he expected her passing. It didn’t make it easier, but it was far more bearable than Aya’s and Aidan’s.
“I’
m going to kill him,” Issac told them. “Jonathan, I mean.” His lips curled down. “I should be out there searching for him right now.” But Lucian demanded a wake in Aidan’s honor, stating it was what his father would have wanted. Tradition. Fucking tradition.
Issac finished his bottle and added it to the rest. “I’ve run out of liquor, Aya.” Four bottles. He’d collect more, but he preferred the solitude of the cemetery around him. Aidan would have preferred a wake, just as Lucian said. However, Issac didn’t know what Astasiya would have wanted. They never discussed death. “You weren’t supposed to die.”
His lips curled down, his gaze shifting to the headstone he’d had engraved for her just yesterday.
Aya Davenfield.
“I couldn’t put your real name,” he whispered. “I should. Fuck. How am I going to tell your parents?” Elizabeth had volunteered, but Issac knew it had to be him. “I want to tell them the truth, Aya. Should I? Or will they be unable to handle it?” He sighed, long and sorrowful. “It’s the kind of inquiry I would ask of Aidan, but…” He swallowed, his focus returning to the stars overhead.
Issac didn’t believe in the afterlife, aside from the resurrection aspects of immortality. As for religions and gods, he knew too much about the history of the world. So many of those theories stemmed from the act of a Hydraian or an Ichorian.
“But I want to hope,” he admitted quietly. “I… I understand why people believe, Aya. It helps them hold on to the past, to know the soul is still thriving.” He placed his palm over his chest. “I feel you here.” He knew it sounded crazy, but he couldn’t deny the very real sensation of her being a part of him. “You can’t be gone.” His voice cracked on the final word, his heart shattering for the thousandth time.
I don’t accept this, he thought. I don’t accept that you’re gone.
His vision blurred, the moon smearing across the sky.
“Fuck.” He dug his palms into his eyes. “I feel…” Lost. As if a part of him had fractured, never to be recovered.
