Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Ch 59: Twin wounds

Cw for mentions of SA, abuse and violence 
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The gallery of arts, Ella decided, was better than the terrace.

It wasn't as green nor as scenic, but it was more isolated, and that was just as well, as far as she was concerned.

The gallery was long, divided by rows and rows of bookcases, like a library. Cabinets displaying Nerean relics—books written by scholars, letters of wise men preserved in glass, the crown of a Queen of yore, the sword of a famed warrior. Lining the walls, like stern faces peering through windows, were portraits of Llyr ancestors old and new.

A museum detailing the rich history of House Llyr through precious artefacts.

The lights were dim, and it smelled of wax and old paper. Empty and wonderfully silent—the perfect place to rest.

Ella was tucked behind the third row, the weak light of a sconce illuminating the book she was perusing. A yellowed tome written by a Nerean scholar who spoke of the siren civilisations and their underwater cities.

The door opened and closed with a click, voices inundating her pocket of quiet. She went still, ears perking.

A couple, arguing.

"—why are you still following me?"

"You play coy, but I know you like it,"
a woman answered, her voice husky, seductive. "You love the push and pull."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" The man drawled. "Was it the several times I said I wasn't interested? I certainly am not pulling you anywhere."

Ella almost dropped the book. She knew that voice. Knew it like she knew the lines of her palms.

Aedion. Aedion and—

"Come now," the woman laughed lazily. "You didn't come here tonight for no reason. It's the first time in years. Surely, you must want something."

"To work," Aedion said, quietly exasperated. "The only reason I came here tonight is work. Nothing else."

Ella's stomach was a knot. A frightfully twisted thing, like a sailor's rope. Her hands trembled. She settled the book back on the shelf, afraid she would damage it.

Of their own accord, she found her legs silently leading her past the third and second row, tucking her behind the first line of shelves.

Well hidden by the shadows, through the slants left between the bulky shapes of vases and stacked books, Ella could see them.

Aedion, arms crossed, leaning against a wall with an irked expression. And—

Moira. Princess Moira. Her hair glossy, ink blue in the candlelight, her eyes hooded, her lips curled like a cat.

"Am I supposed to believe that?" she retorted, undeterred by his tone. Amused, even. "You are a terrible liar, Aedion. It's what you said, time and time again. Always saying no, and yet, you still couldn't get enough, could you?"

Air was an elusive thing, escaping her attempts to inhale it into her lungs. Ella closed her eyes, fighting against the wave of nausea.

She eyed the door—the only exit—blocked by their bodies. How pathetic would she look if she brushed past them? 'Excuse me,' she could mumble, like a child toddling past, awkward and tongue-tied and so damned stupid.

Aedion sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "That was years ago, Moira."

"And what fun we had, no?" she crooned, voice dripping with lust. She took a bold step forward, eating the space between them.