Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 117336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
I stare at the rosebush, uncomprehending. I'm watering it too much. I'm the problem. Why does that hit me so hard today? "Thank you," I manage to say to Daniels and hand back the bottle of rose food. "Sorry to panic."
"It's all right." He gives me another tentative look. "If it's all right with you, I'd like to keep coming by and tending it. It'll make Azar happiest to know that he's taking care of you."
He is, isn't he? In his weird, controlling way, Azar's taking care of me the best way he knows how. Blinking back tears, I move to the cabinet and unlock it, then start putting the medicine away. "You're free to tend to it, yes. Thank you so much. I didn't realize I was over-caring for it."
"A lot of people don't." The smile he gives me is wary. "Sometimes the best thing you can do for a plant is leave it alone for a few days."
Not just plants, I imagine. People, too. I know I could use a few days to clear my head. But my clinic is still full of the sick, and as long as they're here, I'll take care of them. So I just give him a faint smile of agreement, shove the medicine in the cabinet, and head out to the main sickroom to work.
It isn't until later that I realize I'm crying. That hot tears drip down my face all night while I tend to the sick.
I'm crying because Azar loves me, and I love him…but that doesn't make him any less of a monster.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
AZAR
When I head to the library that afternoon, I find a stack of books on my table, left in a spot where I'm sure to see them. Someone's been in here.
I pick one up and I can make out Gwen's faint scent is on it. Rachel’s scent is here, too. Meddling females. My lip curls with distaste and I make a mental note to have stern words with them. This is my private library, and the only scent I want in here is Melina's. Even so, I'm not familiar with the books that are out, and I silently mouth the words as I read down the spines.
Harriet Tubman
A Picture Book of The Civil War
Twelve Years a Slave
The Handmaid’s Tale
I pick the thinnest one up, flicking through the pages. And then pause.
I start from the beginning, reading. I pick up the next one and read through it, and start on the next before I'm vibrating with unease. I read all the shortest ones first, designed for children, and then start in on the longer books. Gwen and Rachel are clearly telling me something. They know the drakoni are not my servants by choice. And they are telling me—in a quiet, subtle way—that Melina will think it is wrong. That humans have enslaved humans in the past based on the colors of their skin. I think of my Melina, and I think of her as blank and empty as the drakoni I control, and I shudder.
I have to fix this. But how? How to protect the fort—and myself—without leaving me open to assassins? It is not just my own safety I must worry about, but Melina's, too. The wisest thing would be for me to keep on as I have been…but if Melina finds out I am deceiving her about the truth of them, she will despise me.
Clearly I have to change how I operate, and soon.
Pondering this, I close the books and set the pile aside so I can read more later, and head to dinner. It is something I must resolve without Melina ever knowing the truth. I would do anything to prevent her from feeling pain over my actions, and I am learning with every day I spend here on this world that the ways of the Salorians are not the ways of humans.
If I am to stay here, to stay with her, I must be human. Once, I loathed the idea. Now, it entices me. I want to be the mate she can rely on, the one she can depend on. I want her to smile at me always…and I want no secrets between us. I am sick to death of secrets and schemes.
I am the only one at the dinner table this evening, but I am not surprised by the absence of both Rachel and Gwen and their mates. They prefer to take their food in their rooms if my mate is not around, and I do not see Melina. I wait for her to come to dinner, but by the time the food gets cold and she still hasn't arrived, I realize Melina must be working late once more, toiling over the ungrateful wretches who continue to disobey orders and eat the foul Rift-pests. I hate that she exerts herself over such useless people, but I cannot blame her for her soft heart. It is that soft heart that allows her to love me, after all.