Let the Storm Break

CHAPTER 28 AUDRA

I don’t know what to feel as I watch Solana untangle her long, tanned legs from the covers of Vane’s bed.

She’s prettier than I remember. Soft curls and bright eyes and toned, graceful limbs.

And Vane only seems a little surprised to see her.

Mostly, he looks guilty.

I try to pull my hands away but he tightens his grip. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Really?” Solana snaps, before I can form a coherent reply. “Because it looks like you’re bonded to another girl.”

Vane turns around to face her. “Well, okay, I guess it is what it looks like to you—and I’m sorry you had to find out like this.” He turns back to me. “But I promise, she’s only here because she offered to protect my parents while I was gone. And she wasn’t even supposed to be home,” he adds, turning back to Solana. “You said you’d take them somewhere safe.”

“I did. And then I heard on the winds that the Gales had turned back, so we did the same.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re in his bed,” I say, wishing I didn’t sound as jealous as I feel. She has just as much right to be there as me—probably more, since she’s the one with the promise link on her wrist.

Still, an irrational rage makes me want to claw at her face when she crosses her arms and says, “Vane and I have been sleeping together.”

“Just sleeping,” Vane corrects—glaring at her before he turns back to me. “And only because I was desperate. I told you Raiden was giving me nightmares, right? Solana knows a trick that blocks them.”

I want to nod—want to make the pieces of his story fit together into a truth that washes away the sour lump in my throat.

But I can’t stop staring at the dent in Vane’s pillow, imagining Solana lying in the dark, waiting for him to crawl into bed next to her.

Is that what he wanted?

“Hey,” Vane says, turning my chin toward him and forcing me to look in his eyes. They’re wide and worried and focused only on me. “I promise, I dreamed about you the entire time.”

“You did?” Solana and I ask at the same time.

I’m mildly triumphant when he ignores her and tells me, “I dreamed about the day I tried to run away when I was seven. Do you remember that? It was snowing and I got lost in the woods and then I fell and couldn’t get up and I thought I was going to die out there all alone. But you found me, and you called your dad and he brought me home. And even though we weren’t friends, you stayed with me that night by the fire until I fell asleep. I asked you to stay and you stayed.”

I hear Solana mumble the word “stay,” but I can’t pull my eyes away from Vane.

I’d blocked out that moment with everything else about that time in my life. But I do remember finding him in the woods, trembling like a fallen fledgling and clinging to my hand like I was the only thing that mattered in the world. And I remember staring at him later that night, as the firelight danced across his skin, and thinking he had a nice face.

I was seven and I didn’t even know what that thought meant.

But it was there.

Before Raiden’s Stormer broke our lives apart and the Gales made their grand plans for Vane.

“Vane—is that you?”

Vane grumbles something under his breath as his mom bursts into the room. “Thank God—I’ve been so worried. . . .”

Her words fade away when she notices me.

“Oh.” Her eyes dart from Solana to Vane. Then back to me. “Oh.”

“Don’t start, Mom,” Vane warns as he reaches for my hand. “It’s been a long day.”

Start what? I wonder as his mom steps closer to examine the bruise on his shoulder. It looks so much more painful in the bright light—though the one on his side is worse. I can’t even look at the wide blue-black splotch without feeling my eyes burn.

“What happened?” she asks, her hand shaking as she reaches for the cut on his cheek. “I thought Gus was taking you somewhere safe—where is he? And when did Audra—”

“Can we save the twenty questions for later?” Vane interrupts. “I’m fine. Gus is waiting for the other Gales, and the rest is a really long story I don’t have the energy to tell right now. But it involves Raiden. And a giant haboob.”

“You saw Raiden?” Solana whispers.

He nods and she shivers and wraps her arms around herself—which makes her dress cut even lower on her chest.

I glance at Vane to see if he noticed, but he’s not looking at her. He’s looking at me—at the wound on my side.

He leans down, lifting the hem of my shirt, and even I can’t help gasping when I see the gash in the light. The Westerly is keeping it clean for me, but the cut is deep and the jagged skin is practically shredded.

I try to cover the ugly wound, but Vane grabs my hands to stop me. “Do we still have a first aid kit, Mom?”

“She needs to go to the hospital. You both probably do. I’ll go wake your dad—”

“We can’t do that, Mom. The doctors would have all kinds of questions about how we got hurt. Plus human medicine makes us sick, remember?”

“Right,” she mumbles. “Not human.”

She stares at the three of us, looking lost and helpless.

“I’ll be fine,” I tell everyone, lifting Vane’s hands and draping his arms around my shoulders, which I know he won’t resist. He takes my cue, pulling me against him, and I can’t help glancing at Solana.

She glares at me before she looks away.

She still wants him.

“Please let my mom treat the cut,” Vane whispers, his breath grazing my cheek. “I’d rather not have it turn into a giant, gangrene-filled hole in your side.”

I shudder, unable to stop myself from thinking of Aston.

“We have to do something,” his mom chimes in. “Come on, I’ll get you the gauze and ointment.”

I hate the idea of leaving Solana and Vane alone. But I feel better when I see Vane’s sweet, worried eyes focused completely on me as I follow his mom out of the room.

She leads me to a cluttered bathroom that has to be Vane’s. Everything about it screams “guy,” from the musty clothes and towels piled on the floor to the streaked mirror speckled with dried flecks of water.

“Sorry about the mess,” she says as she bends and removes a white box marked with a red cross from the cabinet under the sink. “You know how Vane is.”

I don’t realize she meant it as a question until she turns to face me, waiting for my response.

“I . . . do” is the best I can come up with.

Her face is impossible to read as she soaks a clean white towel with steaming water from the faucet. I reach to take it from her but she doesn’t let go. “Don’t worry. I’ve treated plenty of scrapes and cuts over the years. Vane was a very accident-prone kid.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Oh. So . . . you knew him back then?”

I nod.

“What about before his parents were . . . ?”

“Vane didn’t tell you?”

“He hasn’t told me anything.”

I’m not sure how much I should say. But I can tell she’s desperate for me to fill in some of the blanks. “I’ve known Vane since he was six. My parents were in charge of protecting his family.”

Her eyes widen as she processes that.

“Did your parents survive the storm?” she whispers.

“My mother did.”

I leave out why. It’s safe to assume she wouldn’t be looking at me with sad, sympathetic eyes if she knew I was the daughter of a murderer. And I can’t say I’d blame her.

I clear my throat. “Anyway, after that, I volunteered to be his guardian, and I’ve been watching him ever since. Trying to keep him safe.”

“I can’t decide if that’s sweet or kind of . . . weird,” she says after a second.

“Me either, honestly.”

She smiles. But it’s a hesitant smile. A tired smile.

“Did Vane know you were watching him?”

“I think he wondered. There were a few times when he accidentally saw me—but they were too quick for him to tell if I was real. He didn’t know for sure until about a month ago, when the Stormers found us and I had to show myself so I could protect him.”

She nods, wringing the towel in her hands. “And now . . . you’re back?”

This time I don’t miss the question in her tone.

I wait for her to look at me before I tell her, “As long as he wants me to be.”

I can’t tell if she’s happy with that answer. It shouldn’t matter, but . . .

I want his mom to like me.

It’s silly and childish and probably impossible. But seeing how fiercely she loves her son makes me ache for a small sliver of acceptance—something I could hold on to, to tell myself I deserve the beautiful boy I’ve stolen. Maybe it would ease a tiny bit of the guilt that swells inside me every time I think about the angry betrayal I saw in Solana’s eyes.

“Can you lift up your shirt a little more?” Vane’s mom asks, holding out the towel.

I do, leaning against the counter as she squats down and touches the skin around my wound.

Her fingers are gentle but confident as she smoothes the jagged edges of the cut. “This looks really painful.”

“I’ve had worse.”

She frowns, and I think she’s going to ask me what I mean. Instead she says, “Is there a breeze swirling around your skin?”

“Oh—yes. It’s been keeping the wound clean for me.”

“Uh-huh,” she mumbles as I unravel the draft and carry it to the window above the shower. I have to balance on the edge of the tub to reach it.

I can tell the Westerly doesn’t want to leave, but it’s time to let it go. “Stay safe,” I plead as I stand on my tiptoes and slide open the glass. The draft whips around me, singing a song about drifting through the dunes, and I hope that means it will stay nearby—but I’m not going to tell it to. The wind deserves a choice.

I hold it up to the screen, letting it slip through the tiny holes as I whisper a final thanks and tell it to “Be free.”

“Sometimes I have to remind myself that I’m not crazy,” his mom murmurs as I watch the draft float away. “I mean, you talk to the wind. And you fly. And you bring my son home bruised and bleeding and . . .”

Her hands are shaking so much that she drops the towel.

I step down from the tub and pick it up for her.

She leans against the counter, twisting the ends. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not your fault. I just . . . I feel so helpless. Nobody taught me how to raise a sylph king.”

“Well, you’re doing an incredible job. And we all know how difficult Vane is.”

Her lip trembles, and even though she smiles, tears slip down her cheeks. “Promise me you’ll keep him safe.”

“I’m doing everything I can.”

She clears the emotion from her throat, wiping her eyes as she kneels closer to me. “Right, I’m supposed to be helping you.”

I grit my teeth as she presses the rag against my cut.

“Does that hurt?” she asks, lightening the pressure.

“It’s just different from what I’m used to.” When the wind cleans a wound, it feels more natural. But the real difference is the concern in her eyes. I’m not sure my own mother has ever looked at me that way.

Fresh blood seeps from the gash, and his mom wipes it away before spreading a thick, clear balm over the wound. She presses a square of soft cotton over my side and tapes the edges to hold it in place. I trace my fingers along her handiwork when she’s done, surprised at how much better my side feels.

“Thank you.”

She smiles, but it twists into a frown when she takes another look at me. “Do you want to clean up a bit? You look like . . .”

“I’ve been drowned in the ocean and trapped in a sandstorm?”

Her eyes widen, and I’m glad I left out the part about the pile of dead bodies I hid in. Just thinking about it makes me want to burn everything I’m wearing.

“I don’t think you should shower until the wound heals a bit more. But you can wash up with these.” She pulls a stack of clean white towels from the cabinet and points to the sink. “And I’ll see if I can find you a change of clothes. I’ll wash your . . . is it a uniform?”

“It used to be. And I’m hoping it will be again.”

“Well, I can wash it for you tonight.”

She leaves me then and I strip down, surprised at how good it feels to be out of my clothes. The wind keeps them mostly clean, blowing away any filth that settles into the fibers. But a thorough wash would be a nice, fresh start.

I lean into the sink, rinsing the sand and salt out of my hair and scrubbing my face clean. My skin turns pink as I wipe it with warm, soaked towels, then fades to its normal pale color.

My scars are even paler.

Thin white lines scattered across my body, each one a souvenir from training or battles I fought.

Protecting Vane.

I trace my fingers over them, remembering the pain from every wound.

I’m not tanned or soft or nearly as beautiful as Solana—and I may not be the one the Gales chose.

But I earned him.

And if I have to fight for him, I will.