I have not been to the palace since Margaret’s rejection. I do not anticipate returning. Occasionally, I see a broadcast when I am skipping through the channels which entertain Megaris. Krush’s baby has been named Christopher. I had not previously known that it was possible to slap thousands of years of tradition, battle, glory, honor, right in the face with a stupid human name given to a half-korabi baby, but here we are.
I drink. A lot.
It helps me forget Margaret, or at least, it dulls the pain I feel in her absence. I loathe love. It is such a pathetic, awful waste of time. And yet, I cannot escape the bloody feelings which continue to circulate around my flesh, finding their way into my very bones.
The kitchen still smells like her baking. Sometimes I stand in the middle of it all and breathe in that which I have lost. I can taste it. I was so close. But Margaret chose another path, and I will respect that. I will not force her to be my mate against my will. She has always given herself to me willingly, but perhaps that was just the dance of flesh. It meant nothing to her.
I am near certain she has given herself to Tyvian by now. He is a nice, childless warrior with no sordid history to pollute her dreams of perfection. She will no doubt eventually bear some half-blood baby and call it something ridiculous, like Grant, or maybe Marvin. Or Teresa. Or…
There are more stupid human names than I can give thought to.
BAM! BAM!
A knock at the door rouses me from my misery. I don’t answer it. I am thinking of retiring from court life, perhaps traveling to one of the other korabi colonies. I no longer care what happens to Megaris and its colony of captive humans.
BAM! BAM!
I growl underneath my breath. Infernally infuriating interloper, daring to interrupt me. Someone will wear my wrath for this.
“WHAT!?” I fling the door open with a roar of rage.
It is Tyvian. He stands there with his augmented neck and his judgmental green eyes and he makes me feel every bit as pathetic as I am.
“Apologize.”
“To you?”
“No. To Rath.”
I close the door in his face, or at least, I try to. He puts his booted foot in between the door and the frame.
“Move your foot, or that will be your next augmentation, jailer.”
“Please, Tusk, listen to me,” he says. “Margaret has barely stopped crying in the last three weeks. She cries so much she’s sick.”
“Is that so.”
“It is,” he says. “It is pitiful to watch, and I can bear it no longer.”
“This is what she chose. She does not want me, Tyvian.”
“But she does. She just wants a better version of you. What you have been is not enough.”
I snort. “You have gotten bold in your time, Tyvian. Speaking to me in such a way without being fully armored…”
“Just apologize to Rath. Don’t let your pride take your son, your mate, and your baby.”
“What are you talking about?”
He looks about the place shiftily, in the way korabi do when they are trying to tell you something they very much want to tell you, but for some reason refuse to just come out and say. “I’m not supposed to say this. But…”
“If you pause for dramatic effect one more time, I will rip your bleeding tongue out and cook it for the humans to eat,” I warn.
“She’s pregnant. With your baby.”
“Liar,” I snort. “There have been almost no recorded instances of korabi human matings, and yet suddenly inside a matter of months, we have two? What are the odds of such a thing? It is more likely that her husband impregnated her before I killed him.”
“Very well, allowing for that, she is pregnant. She cannot give birth in my dungeon, well appointed as it may be.”
“And why not? Is there some policy?”
“You don’t care that the woman you wanted to be your mate is pregnant?” Tyvian’s tone is the perfect blend of surprise and disgust.
“She does not want me as the father to whatever is inside her,” I remind him.
“Yes. She does! She just wants you to make up with Rath and prove you’re capable of being something other than an absolute monster, if I may speak so boldly. ARGH!”
The last part is where I punch him in the face.
Fourteen
Another week later…
My temper has not improved. My misery has increased several fold. Sitting at home alone drinking and ruminating has solved absolutely nothing.
It occurs to me that I made a mistake when I allowed Margaret to simply choose not to be with me. What does she know about choosing a mate? She chose Mark. And now she is bearing my child. She needs me whether she likes it or not. She needs me whether she likes me or not.