Beginning of Chapter 37

Zen

Everything hurts.

His temple throbbed, blossoming in pain. The rejection stung, stung like wildfire, like an inferno, like his insides torn up into shreds and pulverised into blood. His vision seemed to gloss over, pounding with the beat of his heart. He couldn't quite understand where the blistering pain began and where it ended, springing up in his throat, rushing till each breath was ragged, tears dripping, a whining croak from his lips.

Exploding, twisting, tearing, breaking.

His Omega was crying.

His Omega was dying.

It didn't matter whether or not he'd spent his nights and days nestled in the arms of his mates, mates who were trying to make him better with kisses and hugs, with blood, emotions and love. It just hurt because something was wrong, something inside him was breaking. And Zen couldn't quite describe the sensation.

Everything was just too fucking loud, too fucking awful. His nerves were fried, senses driven up a thousand times into overdrive. And when he awoke in the mornings, he'd struggle to breathe, chest burning through each sob. His consciousness wavering, his mind splintering into the overwhelming roar of existing without something. The gentle sun felt like fire, the sheets felt like claws, his nose burned from smells, his tongue tasted like poison, and breathing felt like torture, each inhale razers through his lungs.

He'd resist the urge to wail, only because he knew that would hurt too. The sounds twisting out of his vocal cords, the piercing ring in his ears. It would be awful. The awareness burned, burned sharp and steady with the pulse of his mind. He'd groan, a sweaty mess, stumbling towards the bathroom to vomit whatever was left in his belly. Then press his head to the cool porcelain and try.

Try to pretend that everything was okay.

Try to be okay.

Then the heat spilt from his lips, dripping not bile, not vomit, but black, black ink. He'd shuddered at it, when it first spilt from his tongue, had stared at the goo of it with horror. No. No. No. He'd blinked, once, twice, vision shaky as the ink dissolved into the pale watery contents of his stomach. Just a vision, just a hallucination.

Not real.

He didn't want to feast on her heart.

He didn't want her to die even if she had been Euodia.

Quinn was Quinn.

He began to cry again, breathing hard, wheezing, blinking through tears, trapped in the cycle of guilt and knowledge of what he had to do. He couldn't tell his mates, had to pretend that he was fine for her. Gods, she was already so fucking disappointed in him. She hated him. She hated him. She hated him.

Her heart in his mouth would no longer work.

Because Quinn did not love him.

His tears welled then, a dull throb in his head, acid swirled through his veins. He breathed slowly, painfully, numbly. There was once when he'd been seized by a panic attack, unable to suck in oxygen, unable to breathe, feeling like he could die through the hiccupping sobs. But not now. He moved as if everything was fine, curled his fingers into his jeans whenever it hurt too much, closed his eyes, and allowed the sweat to bead on his forehead. He'd cringe, stretch fingers, squeeze hard, but he was silent through the pain, the bouts of it, like a torturous reminder of what he had to do.

He'd given too much of himself to her. But when had she slipped so mercilessly into his heart? Zen didn't know. He couldn't fucking remember. Tears always sliding down his cheeks, stomach always churning with nausea.

Helios stared at him harder than usual, watching him with calculative eyes. And he'd smile, try to joke, try to laugh. Because his mate knew what it was like to become Lonely, had been the first to dive deep into the despair. And Helios would carve her flesh on a silver platter just for him if Zen told him of his pain, if Zen told him the truth.

So he lied, like always. He was simply just existing.

Breakfast was quiet, and the quiet seemed to linger in their bloodshot eyes, in the sluggish drag of their limbs. Rowan had screaming nightmares, sobbing into his pillows, and whispering when he awoke. Helios was a walking mess, eyebags and sorrow, his smiles were small now, his silence unnerving. Solar seemed to shiver from fear, and there was always a faraway look in his eyes, stress in his limbs. And Klaus? He might be the only one standing, the only one that seemed capable of doing what they struggled to do. And yet Zen could read the pain in his face, the worry.

He worried for them.

He'd been the one to decide that she should die.

Zen hated him for it.

Her death would have made things easier for them, Klaus had explained. It would help, he'd told them. They were growing too attached; it was time they did something about her. This would be a good reason to kill her, to take her heart when she still loved them. It should work, those that had eaten their Alpha's hearts were thriving. Zen trusted his mate and had listened when Klaus told him to walk away, to cover his ears, to close his eyes. He listened to Klaus over the cold, painful place inside his heart.

He let her die.

That was what he did.

Zen wanted her to die.

And now that she hadn't died, the guilt ate through the room, flavoured on his tongue a sort of sour bitter kind of awful. The breakfast was spooned hot in his bowl and yet it tasted ashy on his tongue. It tasted like nothing; he hadn't tasted anything since that day. Everything felt meaningless, too much.

She knew he let her die.

And then there she was rushing towards him with Icarus and Elysian in tow, stomping in with energy, so more alive than they were. His head had lifted, eyes had widened. God, she glowed. It was impossible for her to, but it seemed that way. The way her hair seemed illuminated by the sun. The pink of her skin. The gorgeous dark, velvety swallow of her eyes. The purse of her lips. He sank into them and blinked dumbly as if she were a hallucination.

She must be.

A gorgeous siren here for his soul.