“What is he then? To you?”
The question threw Callia off-kilter. He was…the guardian who had turned her world upside down. The one person she’d never gotten over. And…the love of her life.
Her heart pinched at that realization, but she pushed the emotion away, like she’d gotten good at doing over the years. “He’s…Zander.”
Lena stared at her for a long minute, then finally sighed. “I guess this means you want me to be nice to him.”
One side of Callia’s mouth turned up at the edge. “Maybe not nice. Just not mean.”
Lena headed for the door with a roll of her eyes. “Not mean. To an Argonaut. It goes against my better judgment. I’ll tell him he can come in now.” She stopped with one hand on the doorknob. “I’d like you to stay another day and get some more rest. But I know you’ll do whatever you want. Regardless of what I think.”
“Thank you.”
Lena hesitated. “I’ve harbored resentment against your world for a long time. I’m not entirely ready to let go of that. But I may be ready to see another side. Maybe.” She opened the door. “Good luck to you, Callia.”
The door clicked shut softly in Lena’s wake. Out in the hall, muffled voices drifted to Callia’s ears. Lena’s, Zander’s. She wasn’t sure what was said, but the conversation was over quickly; then soft footsteps faded away.
Questions swirled in Callia’s mind as she sat on the edge of the bed again and tried to make sense of this crazy day. Lena had said he hadn’t left her for more than ten minutes since he’d brought her here. Was he gone now too? A small part of her hoped so. An even bigger part hoped not.
Gods, she was a mess.
She gripped the edge of the bed and drew in a deep breath that did little to calm her racing pulse. A soft knock sounded at the door, bringing her head up. She waited. When it happened again, she managed a weak “Come in.”
Chapter Sixteen
Callia’s stomach pitched as Zander stepped into the room. The always-confident guardian looked like death warmed over. Not physically—physically he was as strong and healthy as ever, his wounds from that cave nothing but a memory—but emotionally. His eyes were flat, his step heavy, his blond hair disheveled as if he’d run his fingers through it numerous times. An unseen weight seemed to press down on his shoulders and permeate the room around him, one Callia felt all the way to her bones.
She’d never thought of him as old. To the average human he looked like a sexy, rugged thirty-five-year-old in the prime of his life. But he wasn’t. He was 829 years old. And today—right now—all those years seemed to flicker in his stormy gray-blue eyes, reminding her of everything he’d done and seen and been.
“Lena said you checked out fine.”
Callia’s pulse pounded as she studied him. He was wearing the traditional black fighting pants—the same ones Titus had brought for him in that cave. The long-sleeved white Henley showcased his muscular arms and pecs and shielded all but the tips of his Argonaut markings down his fingers. Light stubble covered his square jaw, as if he hadn’t shaved in days, and the faint scars on his knuckles, his throat, the little bits of skin exposed here and there only added to his mystery and intrigue.
Gods, he really was beautiful. Even scarred from all those years of fighting. She remembered the first time she’d seen him. Nearly eleven years ago. She’d been thirty—adulthood for a human, a mere child for an Argolean. The king had specifically asked her to take over as royal healer, a position her mother had held years before, until her death. She’d been at the castle, overwhelmed yet trying to look like she had a clue, when she’d passed Theron and Zander in the hall on their way up to see the king.
Her heart had stuttered then—much as it did now—and she’d felt like she couldn’t breathe. He’d always had that effect on her. And it had only intensified, building until the night he’d pulled her into the king’s study and she’d thrown aside everything she’d ever learned about balance and order and given in to desire.
He stuffed his hands into the back pockets of his pants but didn’t move. It was clear he didn’t know what to say or do, and in the silence, Callia’s pulse picked up to the beat of a marching band. She wasn’t sure why he was still here, but one thing was clear: he felt guilty. And that was something she couldn’t deal with.
“Zander, you don’t need to stay. I’m fine. You don’t owe me—”
“Did I ever tell you about my mother?”
The strange comment cut off Callia’s words. The intensity of his gaze told her whatever was on his mind was important, and maybe she should listen. “No,” she said slowly. “I don’t think so.”
“She worked at the castle.” He crossed to sit next to her on the bed, though he was careful not to touch her. “This was the twelfth century, so things were quite a bit different. Archidmus was king and the Council had way more sway over the monarchy then—over the population in general.” He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and kept his eyes downcast. “Her name was Khloe and she was a teacher. She taught the king’s children and some whose parents worked in the castle. She was bound to a scholar named Alastor. His older brother served as the family’s representative to the Twelve.
“They had no young, and had only been bound for a handful of years when my father, Nikator, came across her in the castle one day.”
The way he said the Argonaut’s name sent a shiver down Callia’s spine. She knew he thought little of the ándras who had given him life, but he’d never talked much about him, and she’d never asked. The rumors about Nikator were well-known throughout the kingdom, though, and those rumors were part of the reason her father had objected to her relationship with Zander in the first place. Nikator had lived up to his name—the conqueror—in every aspect imaginable. He’d been a brutal fighter in and out of battle, an ándras who lived outside the law and took what he wanted without remorse. Often by force.
Suddenly, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to hear the rest of this story.
Zander clasped his hands, and though he looked down at the floor, Callia was sure he was seeing hundreds of years into the past, not the thick cotton threads of the rug beneath his feet. “I like to think that it was consensual. That they met and had a connection.” Like us, she knew he wanted to say, but didn’t. “But I know that wasn’t the truth. She wound up pregnant, and knowing how the Council would view”—he swallowed, visibly sickened—“her rape…as adultery and not the crime it was, she did the only thing she thought she could do.
“She found a witch in the mountains who helped her get rid of it. Get rid of me.” He held his hands out in front of him, palms down so the ancient Argolean text that ran down his fingers was visible. “Only it didn’t work. Even back then, in the womb, I couldn’t be killed.”
Callia’s breath caught. And she remembered his words that day she’d told him she was pregnant. Do not hurt my child. If you don’t want him, I’ll take him. But whatever you do, promise me you will not do something drastic.
He’d seemed so angry. So untrusting. And his words had stung, because yeah, she’d been freaked by the news herself, but she’d been so over the moon in love with him then, she hadn’t understood how he could jump to conclusions she hadn’t even yet contemplated.
“Three times,” he said, still staring at his hands. “Three times she tried to get rid of me, but it never worked.” He reached up and ran a finger down his neck where the long jagged scar puckered his skin. “I was born with this.”