107 Stories of Rowaelin

6. The Valg Princess pt 3

Rowan couldn't sleep. Not without Aelin's warmth on the other side of the bed. Of course, it was sometimes hard to sleep when she was there, especially if she was wearing something revealing. But he needed her there. After an hour of unsuccessful trying to calm himself, he padded around the apartment. Maybe Aelin had books or scrolls. He knew what he was putting off. But maybe she had something.

     He'd looked. Everywhere. All she had were tacky romance novels, and catalogues of clothing and weapons. And she had clothes. Her closet was full of her clothes. Even though some of them hadn't been worn in year, his Fae senses could pick up her scent. He knew that it was impossible, that he couldn't get her back. She wasn't his anymore, she was the Valg's. Rowan collapsed among the frilly clothing that smelled like her, and curled up as the sobs hit.

     He'd been putting it off. He knew he had to do it. The moon hung high in the sky as he grabbed his dagger. She was still in the living room, still sitting starkly upright on the chair. She saw the knife and her expression changed. Not a lot. Only someone who knew her as well as Rowan did would have noticed. His heart broke, right then and there. He saw it in her eyes. She was begging for him to kill her, glad that he was. Her throat was open. He held the steel to her neck, the blade shining in the moonlight. She wanted it, but he didn't. But he was willing to do anything for her. He brought it closer, the blade nearly brushing her skin. But he couldn't. His arm wouldn't move, his wrist wouldn't turn. With a sob of anguish he hurled the dagger across the room.

"Fireheart..." he whispered. 

     He felt something on his hand. Aelin looked almost confused. But when he looked down, he saw her hand in his.