A year after Alina Starkov tears down the Shadow Fold, she is finally able to settle into her peaceful life. There is no more war with Ravka. The Darkling, once her enemy, is now a loyal, protective husband, and a father to their adoptive daughter...
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"GO ᗩᗯᗩY."
The hallway light flooding into the bedroom from the open door disappears as the Darkling closes it behind him. He navigates through the dark and approaches the bed with a disapproving frown, choosing to ignore my warning.
"I just want to talk," he says quietly.
"And I don't," I retort snappily. "See how that works. You need both sides to agree to it, similar to a working marriage, which ours is not."
"I know you are angry now, but soon—"
"Stop it! There is no soon. This is not something that I will just forget about and learn to live with, and I won't wear this fetter forever just because you told me to." I hold up the metal bracelet angrily. His eyes travel to the wounded skin surrounding the restraint where I had been tugging at it all evening, trying to get it off.
The Darkling's eyes soften. He reaches for my hand to survey my wounds, but I yank it away. His features harden in frustration. "Let me help you."
"You've done enough."
"We've been through this before, Alina, how you villainize me for doing what is necessary."
"This," I stand up aggressively, waving the shackle in his face, "is not necessary. The only thing you're doing is pushing me further away."
"That is not my intention, Alina." He cups both sides of my face, searching the depths of my eyes for some sort of sympathy or understanding for his actions. He won't find any there. "I am keeping you here because I love you."
"And I used to love you," I say, trying to suppress the soft whimper that follows. It takes everything I have to say it, but the words need to be said. He needs to understand that this horror cannot keep going.
The shadows blanketing the walls flare and stir in disorder. Once the shock of my declaration settles, the Darkling's nostrils flair with anger, and his loving touch becomes more painful. "You aren't thinking clearly," he asserts in a deep, raspy voice.
I shake my head sadly. "I loved my husband who showed me that he can reciprocate my love. I loved the man whose eyes lit up when he saw me or Amelia walk into the room and who would do anything to make us happy." My voice is trembling as I reminisce on memories in which I would do anything to get back. I cup his face in my hands softly despite his unrelenting death grip on my jaw. "I've sacrificed so much of my old life to be with you. I won't sacrifice my freedom as well. So no, I do not love this version of you, but I have unconditional love waiting for my husband, my Aleksander, when he returns to me. Until then. . . get out."
He stares at me, trying to form a calculated response to somehow fix everything, but for once, he finds that no combination of words can fix this. His grip loosens, and he lets his arms fall to his sides. The Darkling's eyes follow me closely as I climb back into bed. When I do not acknowledge his presence any longer, his shoulders square and his posture stiffens. The Darkling puts up that age-old wall of protection around himself to shut out all emotion and pain that a human being feels.
