Текст книги "The wolf and the crown of blood"

Автор книги: Elizabeth May

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

“Be careful,” I warn her. “Compassion is a poisoned chalice to offer a beast.”

Because she doesn’t know. She can’t know what it costs me to let her live. To let her stand here and pretend to give a shit about my dead.

I turn and walk back to the door before I do something I’ll regret. “Lessons start tomorrow at dawn,” I call over my shoulder. “The northern garden. You’ll be training with Amara. Don’t be late.”

The doors boom shut behind me. I lean against the wood and exhale, slow and controlled.

There are a thousand reasons immortals go mad, a gradual rot that eats you from the inside out. So we seek our own destruction, chasing the welcome dark at the bottom of blood-glutted seas.

Even monsters grow weary with the weight of memory.

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18

BRYONY

THE WOLF ACTUALLY listened. I said I didn’t want silks, and he brought me the wardrobe of a soldier: sturdy leathers, practical boots, loose trousers. Garments meant for movement. For action.

I run my fingers over the material, tracing the fabric so different from my Lucinian dresses. As I lift one of the shirts, a scrap of black flutters to the floor. Heat crawls up my neck when I snatch it up and realize what it is. To call it a nightgown would be generous. It’s the thinnest silk and lace, designed to frame rather than cover.

Right. So there it is—the retaliation to my request. The mocking challenge.

Move, countermove. Disarm, attack.

And I can picture it with devastating clarity—his hands ripping this off my body. Golden wings spreading wide as he pins me down. The scrape of teeth along my throat as he—

“Stop,” I snarl, squeezing my eyes shut. My skin feels too tight, too hot.

I stuff the nightgown under the stack of clothes. If he thinks I’m going to prance around in that shred of nothing, he’s delusional. I’ll strangle him with it first.

Jaw clenched, I yank on the leathers. Everything fits perfectly, which is both impressive and unsettling. I wrench open my door—and nearly miss the note pinned to the wood with a long rose thorn. Beneath it, a blade in an ornate sheath dangles from another thorn.

Dear Nemesis,

The kitchen is open to you. Eat after training, and don’t ruin my floors with your bleeding. I just had them cleaned. The dagger is for practice. If you try to keep it, it’ll be the knife I kill you with.

Wolf

“Prick,” I mutter, yanking the note free.

I storm into my room and grab a pen from the writing desk to scrawl a message below his.

Go to Hellevig and tell my sister I’m alive, or I’ll bleed all over your precious stonework. Her balcony is the biggest on the east tower. Don’t be rude.

B

P.S. Your roses need pruning. Maybe start with the ones you used to stab notes on my door.

I push the thorn back through the paper and pin it to the door.

The morning air is frigid when I step outside. A breeze stirs my hair, and I breathe in deeply. It smells different here than in Hellevig—the fragrant perfume of roses, other growing things, magic. His power saturates the entire property.

“Still breathing, I see.”

I turn at that cool, sardonic voice. Amara lands in a crouch, her dark wings settling against her back. The sunlight filtering through the leaves makes the violet undertones in her feathers shimmer.

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” I say, crossing my arms.

“How’s he treating you?” She tilts her head, studying me with those pale blue eyes. “Has he tried to eat you yet?”

“Not yet. Though you wouldn’t care if he did, considering you dumped me here like garbage.”

She shrugs. “He handles oathbreakers. I handle my own shit. I was working with limited options since you were busy dying on a mountain when I found you. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“If he’s supposed to be handling me, why are you here?”

“Blackmail.” She smirks. “It’s a time-honored tradition between the Wolf and me. If he tried to train you himself, he’d snap you in half in under a minute.” Her attention drops to the blade at my hip. “Word of advice? Don’t get too eager to draw that. You need to learn how to make your body into a weapon first.” She rolls her shoulders, loosening her muscles. “Lesson one. Knock me on my ass. I’m real curious to see you try.”

I’m self-aware enough to know she’s trying to rile me up—but some contrary part of me rises to it anyway, snarling. As if it’s been waiting for an excuse to punch something until my knuckles split.

“Come on,” Amara says. “I’m not here to socialize. Hit me.”

I set my stance, trying to remember the way the palace guards stood when they sparred with each other. Breathe in, breathe out. My fingers curl into my palms, and I throw myself into the blow—

And strike nothing but air as Amara weaves out of reach.

The crack of her palm against my cheek steals the breath from my lungs. My vision tunnels, the world lurching sideways as I stagger. I never even saw her move.

“Pathetic,” she spits. “Is this all you’ve got? This is what I’m supposed to work with? No wonder your uncle thought he could gut you like a fish.”

I stand there, clutching my burning cheek, trying to process what just happened.

“Again,” she barks. “Move your ass!”

I lunge for her. She grabs my wrist, uses my momentum against me, and sends me flying. I hit the ground hard and roll, gravel tearing into my hands as I skid across the dirt. I force myself up onto my knees before she can kick my ribs in.

“You’re holding back.” Amara steps over me, planting her foot between my shoulder blades and shoving me down. My teeth clack together with the impact. “All that rage and hurt, and you’re too craven to use it. Get up and make me feel it. Show me why he’s keeping a Devaliant around instead of mounting your head on his wall.”

I spit out a mouthful of blood. “Fuck you.”

She just laughs. “Oh, Princess. You couldn’t handle me even if I let you. Did they breed the fight out of your bloodline along with your dignity?”

I grab for her again, but Amara’s next vicious blow sends me sprawling. Stars burst behind my eyes.

“Aw, did I hurt your feelings?” She crouches over me and grabs me by my hair, wrenching my head back. “Poor baby. Maybe I should fly your ass to the Duehavn and leave you there for the crows. Would’ve saved us both the trouble if I’d let you die like Alexios wanted.”

I wrench away from her, growling through my teeth, but she shoves her knee against my spine and slams me down.

“Did you really think it would be that easy? That you’d waltz in here and suddenly become a warrior? You’re so weak you can’t even handle a warm-up.” She pushes my face into the dirt, her grip on my hair hard enough to sting. “The world has been itching for the chance to tear you apart since the second you crawled out of your mother’s cunt with that special Devaliant blood. Tell me, Princess. What will you give up to keep breathing one more day? Your pride? Your dignity? Maybe if you’re real lucky, you’ll only have to get on your knees and suck the Wolf’s c—”

Something in me snaps.

It’s a dam breaking, years of suppressed rage flooding me all at once. Every hurt, every humiliation, every time I had to lie there and fucking take it.

Later, I’ll wonder what it says about me. How eager I was to turn to violence the moment I tasted freedom. How right it felt to finally draw blood that wasn’t mine, to make something else hurt.

But in that instant, none of that matters.

I yank out of her hold and slam my head backward into Amara’s nose. Light bursts in my vision at the impact, but I hardly feel it over the vicious rush of satisfaction as her grip loosens and she reels back.

“That’s more like it,” she snarls. “Come on, Princess. Show me what you’re made of.”

I leap on her with a snarl, and we crash to the ground. Some distant part of me shrieks that she’ll tear me apart. That I should know better than to attack a demigoddess. But the rest of me revels in it. Revels in this chance to fight for my right to exist with something other than a bared throat.

So I punch and kick and claw, fighting dirty. Fighting mean. Messy and desperate and real. Amara gives as good as she gets. Her elbow cracks into my cheek, and her knuckles split my lip, my cheekbone, and the arch of my brow. But I don’t stop. I can’t stop. Because stopping means giving up, and I’ve already bled too much to let it be for nothing.

My fingers find her hair and yank hard. She hisses, retaliating with a knee to my ribs. We roll across the ground, each struggling for dominance, leaving blood and skin in the dirt.

Somehow, I gain the upper hand and wrench her arm up behind her back, shoving her down. We’re both panting and sweaty, chests heaving.

“There it is,” Amara says with a breathless laugh, and there’s a warmth in her voice that sounds like approval. “Fuck, I knew you had bite.”

“You let me win,” I say.

“Obviously.” She turns her head to grin at me. “But you needed to know what winning feels like. Needed to taste it. How else will you learn to crave it?”

I roll to the side, every inch of me screaming in protest. Amara pushes herself up on her elbows, looking more exhilarated than anything else.

“Oh, come on. Don’t look so pissed. That was a damn good showing for your first real fight.”

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.” Amara grabs my hand and drags me to my feet. “But I’m the insane bitch who’s going to keep you alive long enough to entertain the Wolf. You’re welcome.” She jerks her chin toward the tower. “Go get cleaned up, little sister. And if the Wolf has any complaints about the condition of his new toy, tell him he can shove them up his ass.”

Little sister. The words strike like a blade to the chest. For a second, I’m back in Hellevig, in the palace gardens with Theo, giggling over something stupid. It feels like another lifetime, a grainy memory belonging to someone else. Someone softer.

I shake my head hard, locking it away. “Why did you call me that?”

Amara glances up. “What?”

“Little sister. Why did you say that?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. For the first time since I’ve met her, she looks almost… uncertain. “It’s just something trainers say,” she finally says, but it sounds like a lie. “Don’t read into it.” She studies me, taking in the damage. I’m struggling to breathe through my nose, and my left eye is swelling shut. “Pain is an excellent teacher,” she says softly. “The most efficient, if not the kindest. Those bruises? That blood? You earned them. Wear them with pride.”

My senses are scraped raw, as if she peeled back my skin and exposed the angry mess beneath. Reached right into my chest and wrapped her fingers around all my soft, vulnerable places.

And it’s the most alive I’ve felt in years.

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19

EVANDER

BLACK MOURNING BANNERS drape nearly every building in Hellevig. Wilted rose petals litter the roads, trampled under countless boots, and the pavement is smeared with the wax of a thousand burnt-out vigils. The entire city is grieving the loss of its princess.

I’ve seen my share of grief. Too much, truthfully. In wartime Scillari, when the bodies stacked up faster than we could burn them, our funerals became public events—thousands of vessels floating into the sky, each containing the ash of demis being returned to the stars. You couldn’t escape it.

The “death” of Bryony Devaliant reminds me of those ceremonies—the scents, the shrines on every street. Some deaths leave marks.

I fly unseen above the masses gathered at the palace gates. Hundreds of bodies are packed together, a sea of black fabric and red veils marking a royal passing. It’s a credit to Bryony’s status among her people that they’ve come at all. By now, rumors must have spread that she was an oathbreaker—and traitors don’t get a public mourning. They don’t get grief. But her? They’re screaming for her.

“Where’s the body? Where’s the princess’ body?”

“Murderers!”

“Princess Bryony lives!”

She’s alive, all right. Wearing my shirts, wandering my tower like she owns the place. My personal plague.

I follow the curve of the Araxes River toward my destination. The wealth of Hellevig’s center gives way to seedier districts as you move outward. Silk Street sits at the border between old money and new poverty, where respectable merchants rub shoulders with criminals.

I land at the old tannery, the only lead I have on the bastards peddling demigod flesh. The stench of smoke and leather hangs heavy in the air as I push through the sagging doorway into what’s left of the building’s interior.

It’s been gutted. Shattered beams drip char onto the floor, and glass litters the ground from the blown-out windows. The debris is minimal, which means the building was stripped before they destroyed it.

Silk Street’s a bust, I tell Alexios, bracing for the brutal crush of his presence. They burned it all.

His consciousness slams into mine. Keep looking anyway. I want a lead. Rip that place apart if you have to.

I crouch next to an overturned table, running my fingers over the gouges in the wood. The kind of marks you get from hacking over and over, really putting your back into it. Just the right size for a big Turpori blade made for chopping through bone.

And underneath the scent of fire and charred wood, I sense it. That ancient energy soaked right into the surface—demigod power. The fresh kind. The dying kind.

Bile stings my throat. An image flashes of bodies strapped to this table, naked and split open. They’d have started at the top of the wings, splintering through cartilage and ligament.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

We’ve got a problem, I tell Alexios. These fuckers aren’t just scavenging battlefields anymore. Someone’s been funneling them fresh kills. There were demis held here within the last week. I can smell it.

Shit. The pressure in my head builds with his anger. All right, I’ll have Zephyr ask around to see where any demis have gone missing.

I turn over a broken crate with my boot and do one last sweep of the building. I’ve found all there is to find here. Should we involve the Dark King?

Let’s wait for Zephyr’s report. Severin might want peace as much as we do, but I’d rather eat nails than deal with him. The pain in my skull escalates to white-hot agony. One more thing, if you’re done. Circle Hellevig on your way back, and make sure they see you. The city is getting bold without the princess’ corpse to weep over. Remind them why they should fear you.

Then he’s gone, the link snapping closed. The pain vanishes in an instant.

With a sigh of relief, I conjure my invisibility and slip out into the daylight. As I wing toward the palace gates, new mourners have amassed by the hundreds, choking the main thoroughfare.

Landing on the public-facing balcony, I spread my wings and let my magic fall away. The throng gapes up at me. It takes a few seconds for it to register—for them to understand what they’re seeing. Who they’re seeing.

Then the panic hits.

Gasps and shrieks echo across the square. People recoil in horror, stumbling over each other in their haste to flee.

I can’t help but grin. Yeah, that’s right. Get a good, long look.

With a strong flap of my wings, I take to the sky again and circle the palace. I hope the image of me is seared into their worthless skulls.

Once the street empties, I land on the large balcony along the palace’s eastern spire. The air reeks of incense and perfume, the balustrade lined with half-melted candles and petals. Someone has left a shrine. A miniature portrait of my Devaliant sits wreathed in black ribbon and roses.

I pick it up, studying the delicate brushstrokes. They’ve captured her physical beauty well enough—the silvery hair, the luminous skin, those violet irises. But it’s missing all the ways she snarls and snaps. The painting shows a porcelain doll; I have the real thing—messy and breathing and full of rage.

“Put it down.” The voice at my back is cool and clipped.

“Princess Theodora, I assume?” I say pleasantly, still examining the portrait. “You know, this doesn’t look a thing like your sister. Too perfect. Too pristine. The thing that struck me the first time I saw her was how hungry she looked. A bit like a cornered animal still pretending to be civilized. And this?” I flick a dismissive finger against the painted surface. “It’s dull. Boring. You should burn it, to be honest. It’s offensive.”

“I said put it down. Or I’ll shove it down your fucking throat.”

I turn slowly. Theodora Devaliant looks about two seconds from tearing out my jugular. Her red hair is all tangled, her green eyes flashing. The physical resemblance to her sister is there—a similarity in the features, if not the coloring. But where my girl runs hot, all restless energy and burning need, this one is cold down to her core. Even the way she holds herself is different—tightly leashed. In control.

I like seeing the contrast, knowing that my Devaliant is the wild one.

“Hasn’t anyone ever taught you it’s stupid to threaten gods?” I ask her.

Don’t be rude, my Devaliant said in her note. I have the feeling her sister will make that difficult.

“You aren’t the first arrogant prick from Scillari I’ve told to go fuck himself. Just ask your brother. He’s had the pleasure.”

Of course, Bastien would have crossed paths with Theodora Devaliant during his duties. I wonder if he saw the same thing I do now—that complete absence of fear that would be admirable if it weren’t so foolish. Fucking Devaliants. Challenging monsters everywhere they go.

She takes another step. “Did you come to gloat, or do you get off on tormenting grieving families?”

Huh. I set down the portrait and give her my attention. Let’s see how this plays out. “What exactly am I meant to be gloating over? Be specific.”

“You murdered my sister.” There’s a waver in her voice, a crack in that icy composure. “Hunted her down like an animal and left her to bleed out on the Duehavn. Alone.”

For a moment, I can only stare at her. So this is the tale Hellevig has spun for itself? Me as the black-hearted villain who slaughtered their precious princess? They won’t be wrong, but it’s a little obnoxious that they’re bleating about it when they haven’t even seen my actual work yet.

“She lived and died in service to Alexios,” Theodora continues. “And she was branded an oathbreaker for crimes she didn’t commit. What have you done with her body?” When I just raise an eyebrow at her—because honestly, she’s a lot right now—she grabs the front of my shirt. “Answer me. I don’t give a damn about that mark on her wrist, Bryony’s ashes belong in the crypt with her family. She deserves to have a public pyre.”

I try to remind myself that this woman thinks she’s lost her sister. If I hurt her for the presumption, my Devaliant would never let me hear the end of it. I enjoy her fury, but not that much.

“Be careful,” I say, almost gently. “You aren’t my target today, but I can always make an exception.”

Her fingers tighten. There’s anger in this one, too. No hint of fear. Only fury and grief and something sharper, more bitter. Hate, perhaps. Runs in the bloodline or maybe in the circumstances.

“If you don’t—”

“You’ll what? Cry at me? Make threats?” I pry her grip loose. “Here’s the problem with your tragic little story. If I’d been the one to kill your sister, I wouldn’t have been so sloppy about it. Executing Devaliants is a rare treat these days. I like to take my time. She’s simply misplaced.”

“Misplaced,” she repeats slowly. Processing my words. “Where?”

“Somewhere safe. And rather conveniently out of reach, as it happens.”

She drags in a slow, rattling breath and blinks away the moisture in her eyes. “Is she with you?”

“She’s where she chooses to be. I’ve agreed to deliver the news.”

Theodora’s eyebrows shoot up. “Since when did the Wolf of Asteria become a human’s glorified carrier pigeon?”

Damn me, I wish I knew. “Since the human in question became my new favorite distraction,” I snap. What is it with these Devaliant girls? Why do they ask so many questions? “And it might interest you to know she was found bleeding out on the Duehavn. And placed in my care.”

Understanding flashes across her features, quickly masked—but not quick enough. She knows exactly who tried to murder her sister.

“I see,” is all she says.

I could press her for answers. Demand a name. But I want to hear it from my Devaliant’s lips.

“Good.” I leap onto the balcony’s edge. “And while I’m playing carrier pigeon, you might want to do something about the rabid mob at your gates. I’ve scared them off for now, but Alexios is getting real tired of their neglected tithes. And when the Eternal loses his patience?” I cast a cold smile over my shoulder. “People tend to die screaming.”

“Wolf. Tell her…” She clears her throat. “Tell Bryony I love her, would you?”

I incline my head. And then I’m tipping back into the open air, wings stretching as I fly toward the horizon.

*   *   *

Snow falls over the tower as I descend.

I land in the courtyard, the ice collapsing under my boots with a muted crunch. Frost-covered trees crack and groan in the hush, and in the distance, the waves of the Osbu Sea crash against the shore. My wings settle against my back as I head down the garden path.

Then I see her, standing under an arch of branches with her head tipped back. Bryony Devaliant has a gift for demanding my attention without saying a word.

“You know, Devaliant,” I say, approaching her, “there are quicker ways to die than exposure. Easier, too. If that’s what you’re going for.”

She doesn’t startle at my voice, just keeps her focus on the cloudy sky as snowflakes settle in her hair like a crown of crushed stars.

“I’ve never seen snowfall before,” she says, soft and wondering.

It’s such a small admission, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. But it knocks the breath from my lungs—because how can this woman who moves through life like she was born to conquer the realms still have pieces of herself untouched by it?

“No snow in Hellevig?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “The magic that anchors the Shroud traps heat in the city. Even with how close we are to the Duehavn, it’s never cold enough.” Her laugh is so bitter it sends a painful jolt through my chest. “Not that I could leave to see it, anyway. A Devaliant has to stay in Hellevig to keep the Shroud anchored, and I was the convenient choice. No ruling duties. No diplomatic missions. So I never left the city.”

“Never?”

“No.” She wraps her arms around herself. “I used to stare at the mountains from my window. Press my face to the glass and imagine how snow would feel, how it would taste. You have no idea how often I thought about sneaking to the train station and running away. Pathetic, right?”

“It’s not pathetic at all.” The words emerge rougher than I intend.

I picture this wild, feral creature pacing the length of her enclosure. Craving freedom. Hungry to feel something—anything—besides the slow suffocation of a life unlived. I know what it’s like to desire that so viscerally you feel it like an ache. Like a scream building in the back of your throat that you can never release.

The notion of Bryony Devaliant being caged is obscene. She wasn’t meant for staying still.

“Is it what you imagined?” I ask. “Worth all that wanting?”

She lifts her hand, letting the snowflakes fall onto her palm. “It’s different than I thought it would be. Sharper, somehow.” She pauses, searching for words. “But softer, too. Like the realm’s gone quiet. Like it’s… holding its breath.”

Like you, I think. The contradictions of you. Sharp enough to cut, soft enough to break.

“It’ll melt by morning,” I tell her.

She hums and drops her hand. “If it lasted forever, we wouldn’t stop to admire it.”

When she finally turns to face me, I freeze at the sight of her. Her face is shattered. One eye is blackened and swollen shut, her bottom lip is split down the center, and the arch of her cheekbone is fractured.

“I see Amara didn’t pull her punches during training today,” I say flatly.

The Devaliant goes still, as if she’s only now registering the pain. As if the hurt is some distant thing. And isn’t that just like her, to be so divorced from her own relative fragility that she doesn’t even notice when she’s broken.

“What’s wrong, Wolf?” Her voice is mocking. “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted? For Amara to beat the weakness out of me? Or are you pissed she marked up your toy before you got the chance?”

“Oh, I’ve no compunctions about blood in the pursuit of excellence. But this?” I gesture to her injuries. “This is inelegant. There are better ways to shatter a thing and make it stronger with a far defter hand.” I lower myself onto the crumbling stone bench flanking the garden path, spreading my legs wide. “Come here. Tell me what lesson was worth Amara destroying that pretty face.”

She doesn’t move. Just watches me with that one good eye as if she’s trying to figure out my angle.

“Come here, Devaliant. Unless you want to explain to Amara tomorrow why you can’t train because you’re still fucked up.”

That gets her moving. She walks over slowly, each step careful, like she’s approaching a wild animal. I wrap an arm around her waist and tug her into my lap, ignoring her sharp intake of breath.

“The lesson,” I prompt, settling her more firmly against me. “What was it?”

Her jaw clenches. “That no matter how strong I get, someone will always be there to remind me exactly what I am and where I belong. In the dirt, under someone’s boot.”

Ah, so that’s what Amara was doing. Reminding the Devaliant of her position in the grand hierarchy—a mouse can draw all the blood it likes, but it’s never going to be a hawk. It’s a brutally effective tactic. I’d bet Amara picked it up during her time in the fighting pits.

“Can’t even savor your first snowfall without someone grinding your face in, huh?” I splay my hands over her hips. “Close your eyes. I’ll keep you warm.”

She hesitates, but then her eyelids flutter shut.

My fingers dip under the hem of her shirt to brush her bare skin. “I could make this feel good,” I tell her, letting my magic flare against her just enough to make her gasp. “Make you feel it right between your thighs until you beg for things you don’t even know you want yet.”

“No.” The answer is almost sharp. “Just… fix it.”

The Devaliant is not a creature built for begging, but one day, I’ll make an art of it.

Mend her first. Conquer her later. Stars grant me patience, because if you grant me strength, I will absolutely do something regrettable with it.

I slide my power across her body to take stock of her injuries: shattered cheekbone, burst vessels, broken nose, two fractured ribs. Amara was clearly making sure the lesson stuck without doing enough harm to kill her.

“This will hurt,” I warn her. “Especially the ribs. They need to be forced back into alignment. Try to keep still for me.”

At her nod, I reach for the deep well of magic inside me and let it spark along my veins. I temper the blaze into a controlled burn, sinking it into the damage, knitting bone and smoothing flesh. Her body is a grimoire, a history of violence and brutality inscribed in a lovely, fuckable package.

There’s something intimate about sliding under her skin like this. About giving her the closest thing to worship these killer’s hands know. I watch her closely, seeing how she responds when I drag my magic over her. Which parts make her clutch my shoulders. Which ones make her thighs squeeze mine.

Then the Devaliant’s breath hitches. Slowly, so slowly, she leans into my palm and turns into the heat. And it’s all I can do not to—

Consume.

But I’ve learned patience. She’s going to yield to me, but it won’t be tonight.

When I finally get to her ribs, she tenses. A soft gasp of pain leaves her. I coast a soothing hand across her shoulder blades and begin to hum. It’s an old song from a home that no longer exists, from a life purged and hollowed out. My mother used to sing it to me when I was a demi—still a child learning to control my power. The lullaby helped me concentrate, gave me something to focus on as I struggled not to incinerate everything within reach. A song meant to soothe. To steady.

The Devaliant inches closer as I sink into her on a cellular level, finding all the pockets of pooling blood and splintered bone, refusing to miss a single scrape or bruise. The shattered architecture of her reassembles until only perfection remains. A blank canvas scraped clean and re-primed.

“There,” I say, unable to stop myself from ghosting my lips over her jaw, her cheek, her temple. “Good as new.”

I ease back and let the healing glow flicker and fade until we’re just two bodies embracing beneath the falling snow. Snowflakes catch on her lashes and melt against her lips, and I’m tempted to kiss each one.

“What were you humming?”

“It’s an old song,” I say, reaching up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “From a city that’s nothing but rubble now.”

“Will you teach it to me?”

She asks it so simply, so without guile. As if she isn’t requesting I crack open my ribs and offer her my heart on a platter.

“Maybe.” I tap her on the nose, smirking when she wrinkles it at me. “If you’re very, very good for me.”

The Devaliant opens her eyes to glare at me. “Did you go to my sister today?”

“Yeah.” I dip my head to scent her. She smells of frost and evergreen and my magic. “She told me to tell you she loves you.”

She relaxes on a shuddery exhale. As if she’s been braced for a blow, and now that she knows it’s not coming, she can finally let herself crumple a little. She tucks her face into the hollow of my throat and breathes. I jolt with surprise when hot tears splash against my skin.

The long-neglected voice of my conscience—one that sounds too much like my mother’s—says, Stop behaving as if you were raised by wolves and comfort her.

Slowly, tentatively, I stroke a palm down her spine. She doesn’t flinch away. It feels like a victory.

“Will you…” She swallows. “Will you deliver letters to Theo for me? If I write them?”

My hand stills on her back. The request hangs in the air between us.

Say no. Tell her she gets nothing. Tell her she’s lucky you’re letting her breathe.

But her tears are still wet on my skin, and she’s soft and trusting in my arms, and I’m apparently weak when it comes to her.