Текст книги "The wolf and the crown of blood"

Автор книги: Elizabeth May

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

The more interesting you are, the longer you live.

And just like that, the moment shatters. A red haze falls over my vision. With a snarl, I wrench out of his hold and shove him back into his chair. He goes down with a grunt of surprise, those massive wings flaring wide. Then I pluck the dagger from his grip and slash it across his bare chest.

And I lick the gash before it can heal.

“Now this blade will remember how you taste,” I hiss, stabbing the dagger into the chair inches from his head. “And so will I.”

We’re both breathing hard now, our chests touching. Hearts beating against each other. He glares up at me, but his hands slide to my ass, yanking me flush against his aroused cock.

“Fuck, I hate you,” he growls.

I lean in close, lips brushing his ear. “Then hate me harder.”

His hips jerk, rolling up to meet me in a slow, dirty grind that makes my breath catch. I match him without thinking, our bodies falling into a rhythm as natural as violence. Graceless. Artless. As inevitable as gravity. My head falls back as he thrusts up against me. The chair creaks with each movement, a counterpoint to our harsh breathing.

“I hate everything about you.” His hands roam over my back, my sides, grasping. “I hate your smart fucking mouth and how it asks too many questions. I hate how you feel against me.”

Liar, I think as he dips his head and flicks his tongue over my pulse. You love it.

I rock into him harder, chasing friction. His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to bruise, to mark me. I imagine him covering me in blue and brown and yellow shaped like his fingers. Like the imprints of his teeth. Every mark would be evidence of his unraveling control, hidden beneath my clothes like secrets.

“I hate how you touch me,” he rasps, lips moving to my jaw. “Hate that I get so damn hard whenever I see you.”

It’s aggressive, almost violent, the way we collide. The way his hips slam into mine, his hard cock grinding against my pussy through our clothes.

But there’s poetry too. In the rough noises he makes when I ride him just right. The reverence of his touch, his mouth as he kisses down my neck. His breath shaping secrets against my pulse. Like a dark liturgy. Like worship.

And maybe it’s madness—this desperate urge to offer myself up to his mouth and hands, to take in all his darkness. To let his edges cut me open until we both bleed.

I don’t give a fuck if you die, he said weeks ago. But I’ll make damn sure he remembers me. I’m going to carve myself so deeply into his bones that when he kills me, he’ll never be free of me.

I wrap my hand around his throat, squeezing until I feel his pulse spike against my palm. Hard enough to make my point.

Leaning in, I let my lips graze his ear. “This is killing you, isn’t it?” I whisper. “Wanting me?”

He goes rigid beneath me.

Got you.

“If you want to understand a thing, you have to learn its nature, right?” I say, throwing his own words back at him. “You know what I think? You hide behind cruelty because it’s easier than admitting I make you feel anything but rage.”

He sneers. “Shut up. You’re nothing.”

“Nothing doesn’t make you pace outside my door because I’m not talking to you. Nothing doesn’t drive you insane.” I press my nails into his chest, relishing the way his muscles jump. “I’ll bet there isn’t a day that goes by that you don’t think about me. You hate me because I’m under your skin, and you’re still trying to dig me out. You fell apart when I wasn’t speaking to you because you need this, don’t you? My attention, my touch, me.” I roll my hips again, slower this time, deliberate. Relishing the way his mouth parts on a breath. “Yeah, you need this so fucking bad that you get yourself off thinking about all the ways you could have me. I’ll bet you come with my name on your lips and hate yourself after.” I brush my lips down his jaw and breathe, “I’ll bet wanting me eats. You. Alive.”

I pull back slowly, drinking in the sight of him. At my mercy and speechless for once.

“Tell me something, Wolf,” I say into the charged space between our mouths. “When you dream of me now, is it with my blood on your hands? Or your tongue between my thighs?”

His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to leave marks, and for a moment, I think he might finally snap and take what we both know he wants.

But I don’t give him the chance.

With a final, vicious grind, I yank my knife out of the chair and climb off him. I don’t look back as I gather the blades and collect my fallen robe.

“I’m going to go enjoy my new knives. Sweet dreams,” I tell him with a grin and a little wave.

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24

THEODORA

NO ONE TELLS you that ruling means being a performer.

Drip.

You can be taught all the right things on your father’s knee—sit straight, think before speaking, trust your instincts—but pretending to be whole when you’re falling apart? That takes skill. That takes—

The tide rushes in and yanks you under. The more you drown, the longer it takes to die. And the longer it takes to die, the deeper you sink.

Down.

Drip.

An Anchor’s body is gold. You learn the value of it in how they treat you at the altar. The Oracle always runs her fingers through my hair, her touch gentle until it isn’t.

“Good girl,” she coos, right before she shoves the blade into my ribs.

When I gasp back to life, there she is again. Same words. “Good girl. Such a good girl.” Like I’m a pet performing a trick.

Fuck. You.

Drip.

Blood is my war paint. I don’t accept the cleansing after the ceremony. This body needs a reminder. It needs to know that it’s not a drowning set of lungs; it belongs to a woman, and that woman is me.

So I shove off the altar and let the blood drip through my gold temple dress. Let it paint my skin. I am going to fuck in all this blood.

I just need to walk out of the temple, down ten steps, and get into the carriage.

Drip.

“Your Highness?” Kas, my guard, falls into step beside me.

I don’t look at him. “I want it in the carriage.”

I’ve been called many things by many lovers. Ice queen. Heartless. Frigid bitch. They expect tenderness after I’ve let them inside me, as if I owe them that. As if they’re entitled to more than I’m willing to give.

I’m not interested in feelings. I’m trying to keep this body alive, and so it needs touch.

“Whatever you want,” Kas says as we exit the temple.

That’s why I keep him close. He doesn’t ask for what I can’t give, and the blood doesn’t bother him. It excites him.

Sensation crashes over me in waves—sight, sound, touch. Sun in my eyes. Too many voices. Too sharp. Too much. The trick is to focus on something small when everything feels too big: the pressure of Kas’ fingers, the weight of my dress, the way my heart pounds. My breath.

In. Out. In. Out. Don’t think about how you can’t feel your fingers yet. In. Out.

I force my legs to keep moving.

Find solid ground. Come on, Theo.

I stumble slightly, and hands close around my arms, steadying me before my trembling knees can fold.

“I have you, Your Highness.” Kas’ voice, low and measured. Grounding.

I meet my bodyguard’s gaze, those eyes missing nothing as they note my unsteady movements. No softness there, no tenderness, only the keen assessment of a professional for his charge.

“The crowd?” I ask.

“Worse than usual.” His attention flickers to the barricades outside the temple and the throng beyond. “We’ll have to move quickly.”

Nothing’s been right in the city since Bryony’s “death”. Oh, we staged a lovely public funeral a fortnight ago—an empty casket, my uncle’s fake tears as he convincingly told everyone that the Wolf had come for their princess. But Lucinian practice dictates a pyre with the body on public display, and generations of Devaliants observed the custom. And all Idris had to show everyone was Bryony’s blood-soaked dress. Funny how skeptical the masses become when you can’t produce a corpse to burn.

The only person in Vartena who knows for sure that my sister is alive is me. I destroy every letter the Wolf brings from her after I read it. And now that she’s gone—or so the people believe—the city’s collective grief has transmuted into something uglier. Restless. Hungry for answers we’re not providing.

“Where is Princess Bryony?”

“Why won’t they burn her? Where’s the body?”

The ocean waves are closing over my head, pushing me into their depths.

Chin up, eyes forward. Don’t let them see.

This is the performance. The part no one teaches you. The part you learn if you want to survive in this world.

Kas’ grip tightens as he half carries me down the temple steps. The instant we clear the threshold, the crowd surges, straining against the wooden barricades. My guards form a protective circle as we approach the waiting carriage, hands resting on sword hilts.

Kas nudges me into the carriage. The moment we lurch into motion and the privacy curtain falls, I’m in his lap, dragging his mouth to mine.

“Fuck me,” I say, smearing my blood on his neck as I wrap my hand around his throat.

When I nip at his lip, he growls, hands finding my hips and dragging me closer. We both know what this is. What we are to each other. He’s the solid thing I cling to when the tide threatens to drag me under; I’m the outlet for his violent edges.

I can still hear the crowd’s screams beyond the carriage windows.

Where is she where is she whereisshe—

Kas makes a low sound in his throat. “Tell me how you want it.”

“Just shut up and touch me. I want to be sore after. I don’t want to think right now.”

This isn’t romance. It isn’t even really about attraction, although I can appreciate the clean, brutal lines of him. No, this is about feeling alive. Warmth and sensation, the temporary giddiness of frantic coupling. It’s about touching someone long enough to remind myself that there’s still blood moving through my veins, and the parts of me that feel broken and numb can still ignite.

I need to cram this body so full of pleasure that it forgets it was ever dead.

His fingers find their way under my skirts, yanking up the fabric. Finding the ties of my undergarments—

A shout from outside pierces through my hazed mind. Then another. And another.

“Your Highness!” One of the guards pounds on the roof. “The barriers—”

The sudden surge of voices drowns out the rest of his warning. The carriage jerks to a halt as bodies press against it. Through gaps in the curtains, I catch glimpses of faces contorted with desperation, hands reaching, grasping.

“Where is she? Where is Princess Bryony?”

Breathe in. Breathe out. Lock it down. Don’t let it touch you.

Kas hoists me off his lap and deposits me on the opposite bench, already going for his sword. All trace of the considerate lover is replaced by the battle-hardened bodyguard.

“Stay,” he orders me.

Bodies slam against the vehicle from all sides, rocking it on its wheels. My guards shout.

“Get back! I said get back, damn you!”

But they don’t. They won’t. I can hear it in their voices—that edge of hysteria that makes people dangerous. The press of bodies is too thick, barely allowing us to inch forward. My guards fight to free a path, and I catch snippets of their shouts over the din.

The horses finally break through, and the carriage gives a violent lurch. We hurtle down the street in a thunder of hoofbeats. Kas remains crouched beside me, one hand still on his sword just in case.

By the time we reach the palace gates, my hands have stopped shaking. I take exactly three deep breaths. In. Out. Box it away for later. You can fall apart in private.

“You good?” Kas asks, voice carefully neutral.

“Report to me in an hour,” I say, not answering.

The ocean in my mind pushes me down further into the black.

*   *   *

I throw open the door to Idris’ study without knocking. The scene that greets me is exactly what I expected—and somehow still disappoints.

“Really?” I drawl, taking in the spectacle before me. “On the trade agreements from Borgund?”

Lady Maris gasps, scrambling off the desk. Papers flutter to the floor. Her skirts are rucked up around her waist, and there’s a love bite blooming on her throat.

Idris doesn’t even have the courtesy to look ashamed. He just leans against the desk, stuffing himself back into his trousers. Judging by his blown pupils and the way he’s swaying slightly, he’s riding high on more than pussy and wine.

Pathetic.

“Get out,” I say to Lady Maris. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to.

“Your Highness, I swear, I didn’t mean to—”

“If the next words out of your mouth aren’t some variation of ‘it won’t happen again,’ I’ll make sure you’re the one who has to explain to Lord Aren why his proposal was crumpled beneath your bottom. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to postpone his winter shipments while we draft a replacement.”

Maris flushes. She drops a wobbly curtsy, mumbles something that could charitably pass for “begging your pardon, Highness,” and flees.

My uncle squints at me, trying and failing to summon the disappointment he used to level at me when I was a child swiping pastries before dinner. “A knock would have been appreciated.”

“So would a sober emperor.”

Idris rolls his eyes, grabbing the bottle of wine perpetually on the edge of his desk. “Have a drink, Theo.” He drinks directly from the neck of the bottle, his throat working. “It might help dislodge the stick wedged permanently up your ass.”

I clench my teeth. Don’t lunge over there and punch your uncle in the face. Calm. Poise. Control.

“Our people are getting restless,” I say, forcing my jaw to relax. “They tried to drag me out of my carriage after I made my tithe.”

He tugs at his clothes and downs a gulp of wine. “What do you want me to do? I already ordered them to give their tithes, and they’re back at the temple.”

“Some are back at the temple. Not all of them. You need to—”

“Go out there and soothe them? Kiss their babies? What?” He makes a sharp gesture with the bottle, wine sloshing. “They’ll get over it, or an Enforcer will kill them. I’m their emperor, not their nanny.”

I swear to the gods, this man is useless. I’d say it’s a wonder he can dress himself in the morning, but he doesn’t do that, either.

“Get over it?” My voice rises. “The city is still tearing itself apart over Bryony, and your solution is to what, exactly? Drink and rut with anything that has a pulse until they lose interest?”

“I asked for a buffer around the palace, and all royal tithes will no longer go through public streets. It’s dealt with. Happy?”

“Happy? Dealt with?” A sharp laugh tears out of me. “All you can muster is ‘Let’s avoid the main thoroughfare, shall we?’ while your people scream for answers about what really happened to their princess?”

The bottle freezes halfway to his mouth.

There it is, I think with savage satisfaction. Finally got your attention, didn’t I?

“Be very careful with your next words, Theodora.” His voice drops low, dangerous.

“Or what?” I stalk forward, my lip curling in disgust. “You’re worse than my father ever was. At least he had the decency to die before he could drag us all down with him.”

The bottle shatters against the wall beside my head. I don’t flinch.

“You ungrateful little bitch.” Idris stalks forward. “I took the throne when your worthless father couldn’t handle it anymore. I kept this kingdom from suspecting our family was falling apart. I sacrificed—”

“Sacrificed? You attacked your niece and left her to die on a mountain. You were the reason she was there in the first place!”

His mouth hangs open. I haven’t confronted him about what the Wolf said to me a month ago. I’ve been waiting until the right moment, and here it is.

“I told you,” he says. “The Wolf came and—”

“Do not,” I hiss, “treat me like an idiot. An Enforcer would have left us a corpse for the pyre. Only an incompetent would bring back bloody rags and think it was enough. Those people out there expected a funeral like we’ve given every other Devaliant, oathbreaker or no. They loved Bryony more than they love you.”

His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my throat. “I did what had to be done,” he snarls, squeezing. “The Eternal demanded blood, and I gave it to him. You think you’re so much better?” His hold tightens until black spots dance at the edges of my vision. “I could snap your neck and tell them all you fell down the stairs in your grief. It would be so easy to say you finally cracked. That losing poor Bryony was too much. Who would question it?” His thumb digs into my windpipe. “You’re just another weak little cunt like the rest of them. Too soft to do what needs doing.”

I shove my knee into his crotch with all the force I can muster. He makes a sound like a wounded animal and doubles over. But I’m not finished. I slap him hard across the face, watching him stagger.

“Touch me again,” I snarl, shaking out my hand, “and I’ll make you beg for something as merciful as a broken neck.”

Idris works his jaw, his eyes blazing.

“You’ve been spinning stories for so long, you probably believe your own bullshit by now,” I say. “Go ahead. Try to end me. Give them another martyr and see if you last when they all realize I’m the only reason you still have a throne to piss on. They tolerated you because Bryony and I were holding Hellevig together. You think you’ll last a day when the truth comes out? Do it, Uncle. Kill me, you fucking coward.”

“Get out.” This time, I hear the first faint ring of uncertainty.

“You’re not a ruler,” I say, soft and vicious. “You’re a sad, pathetic man clinging to a title you never earned.”

Idris looks like he wants to lunge at me again.

“Remember this moment,” I tell him. “The day you lost Luceni. And it won’t be because the Eternal screwed us or Bryony died. It’ll be because you’re a craven, useless piece of shit who deserves every knife in your back.”

I’m out the door and halfway down the corridor before I pull in a shuddering breath that feels like swallowing glass.

The mark on my wrist throbs—Alexios’ Claim, binding me to his service. To the Shroud. I slide my fingers beneath my gold cuff and trace the brand, considering.

I’ve heard gods can hear those they Claim—any prayer sent along the conduit, our thoughts, our desperate pleas. I’ve spent every day since my first tithe training my mind to be a fortress. No stray thoughts escaping.

For the first time in my life, I open myself up.

Is this what you wanted when you revoked my sister’s Claim? I think, pushing the thought out like arrows. Chaos in the streets? You’ve left me a mess to clean up because you couldn’t stand that they loved her more than they feared you.

Silence answers. Not that I expected anything else. Gods don’t lower themselves to respond to the insects they grind beneath their boots.

I shore my mental ramparts back up behind an impenetrable psychic barrier. I have more immediate concerns. My throat aches where Idris grabbed me, but I hold my head high as I stride down the hall.

Kas falls into step beside me, matching my pace. “Your Highness—”

“I need numbers,” I say, cutting him off. “Tally my loyalists in each branch of the household, down to the scullery maids. Prioritize those closest to me during the regency.”

“Give me a few days,” he says. He hesitates. “Your Highness, we might not have enough—”

“Yes, I’ll assume everyone’s heard a version of events where I’m destined to usher in Luceni’s downfall because I was the first woman to rule even temporarily. I know what story my uncle crafted when he returned from his drunken haze and sat his ass back on the throne.”

Idris might be checked out from actually running this kingdom, but he’s always had a gift for controlling the narrative. Lying is the only thing he does with any semblance of competence.

“They don’t realize how close we are to collapse,” Kas says grimly. “They still think your uncle advised you when you were regent.”

“Then make them understand. He’s getting more unstable. We don’t have the luxury of waiting.”

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25

BRYONY

THE ROSES ARE HAPPIER.”

I go still at the Wolf’s voice. His scent envelops me, a mix of citrus, evergreen, and magic.

It’s been three days. Three days of him avoiding me. He comes into my room at night, heals my injuries, and leaves. Cold, perfunctory. None of the usual lingering touches with his hands. Not since—

This is killing you, isn’t it? Wanting me?

Gritting my teeth, I sit back on my heels and glare up at him—and immediately wish I hadn’t.

Every day, I forget how beautiful the Wolf is, and every day, I’m slapped in the face with it again. Dark trousers ride low on his narrow hips. A tight black shirt strains across his chest, stretching over his broad shoulders and fastening beneath his wings. His dark hair is mussed, as if he’s just rolled out of bed.

Or tumbled someone in it.

A sour taste fills my mouth at the thought.

In Hellevig, we have a saying: The sweetest poisons come wrapped in honey. I’ve never seen anything embody that warning quite like the male standing before me. Something so beautiful you forget what he really is: a predator.

I swallow hard and force my attention back to the weeds, attacking them with renewed vigor. “Maybe they’re just glad someone is finally paying attention to them. Their neglectful owner has been too busy pretending I don’t exist.”

I’ll bet wanting me eats. You. Alive.

A breeze whips through the garden, sending fallen leaves skittering over the ground. The branches of the towering silverpines creak around us.

Finally, he answers. “I just healed you yesterday, didn’t I? Cracked skull, busted ribs, ruptured spleen. One would think something that traumatic would stick, but maybe you had such a good time you’ve forgotten already. Or do you mean the lack of speaking? Otherwise known as your favorite tactic.”

A thorn bites into my wrist as I reach for another weed, and I hiss out a curse. A thin rivulet of crimson beads up. “You’re the one who likes the sound of your own voice.”

He smiles slowly. “Careful, nemesis. Almost sounds like you missed me.”

Nemesis. That nickname shouldn’t spread heat across my skin, but it does.

I glance away. “Amara will be here any second. I’m sure you have better things to do than supervise.”

“She’s not coming. I’m taking a murder holiday. Specifically to torment the princess who thinks she can cheat a god out of his daggers and get away with it.”

“I didn’t cheat. I outsmarted you. There’s a difference.” I roll my eyes. “If you’re planning to skulk around, you might as well make yourself useful. Bond with your precious roses. Prune something before they stage a coup and strangle us both in our sleep.”

When he doesn’t answer, I make the mistake of looking up again. The Wolf is grinning at me, the kind of grin that makes prey animals run for their lives. The kind that promises beautiful, terrible things.

“You know what?” he says. “I have a better idea.”

Before I can blink, he grabs me around the waist and launches us into the air. The ground falls away with a single powerful beat of his wings.

“Wolf!” I yelp when he veers sharply to the left.

I feel his chest shake with laughter. The bastard is enjoying this.

My stomach lurches as the garden grows smaller and smaller. I can barely breathe. Can’t think. His arms are the only things keeping me from plummeting.

“Put me down, you lunatic!”

“Stop squirming,” he says in my ear. “You don’t want to slip free when we’re up this high.”

This absolute bastard.

He flies us higher. The tower’s surroundings fade into smudges of green and gray below. The air becomes crisper and sharper in my lungs the more we climb. Scillari spreads out below us in a patchwork of colors—the starlight rivers, the teal lakes, the forests, and the multi-hued flowers that cover the mountains. Hazy spires jut through the clouds, distant glimpses of sprawling residences carved into the cliffs.

I can’t even see the Wolf’s property now.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask.

No answer. Just wing beats and rushing wind. We’re approaching the sea now.

That’s… That’s not good. Nothing for miles. No way to escape, no chance of rescue. He could drop me, and I’d vanish without a trace.

“Wolf, where—”

“This is the Osbu Sea,” he says, barely audible over the wind.

Oh, good, kidnapping and vague answers. That’s comforting.

Craning my neck, I glare up at him. “Why are we in the middle of nowhere? What are you doing?”

“You’ve been secluded in that tower for too long getting your ass handed to you by Amara,” he says. “I thought you could use an introduction to an ancient Scillarian tradition. You should be flattered that I’m making an exception for your fragile human constitution.”

Nothing about this bodes well.

“Dare I ask what this ‘tradition’ is?”

“Water landings,” the Wolf says conversationally. “Mastering them is a rite of passage for young demis. We start the infants out with something small—a pond or lake. Eases them into the rush while minimizing the damage to those soft little baby limbs when they inevitably botch the angle on the first few passes.” I feel his smile curve against my temple. “But you know me. I’ve never been one to coddle. Hands-on instruction garners much more satisfying results.”

“Hands-on—”

“In fact, I believe you’re overdue for your first lesson. Remember that vow I made after our little wager? The one about making you pay dearly for hustling me?”

Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

Every cell in my body bellows a warning, animal instinct clawing to the surface. “Wolf, don’t you dare—”

“The trick,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the tender skin just behind my ear, “is to streamline. Aim for the horizon, keep your chin up, and hit the water at the shallowest possible angle. Oh, and do remember to scream nice and loud for me. If you’re convincing enough, I might consider fishing you out before the sharks catch your scent.”

What—

“Wolf!”

“See you soon, you little cheat.”

And then the bastard drops me.

There’s a moment of dread where I’m suspended in the wind. And then gravity seizes me, and I’m plummeting. The sea hurtles closer, closer, closer. I send up a prayer to the stars, to the realm, to any power bothering to listen to the pathetic human plummeting to her death.

Please please please not like this don’t let it end like this please—

Arms close around my waist, arresting my fall so suddenly that all the oxygen leaves my lungs. And then we’re climbing again, the water receding as we wheel through clouds back into the open sky.

“You absolute fuck,” I choke out between shallow breaths. “You fucking fucker!”

He laughs. “One little fall and she loses her entire vocabulary.”

“Fuck you!”

“Honestly, that was underwhelming. Where was the flailing? The tears? The frantic bargaining for your life? I’m insulted.”

“I’ll be sure to scream to your exacting standards next murder attempt.”

“This is basic fledgling shit, nemesis. If an infant can manage a harmless little plunge, so can you. Builds character. And bone density.”

“A harmless little plunge?” I splutter. “Those infants have wings!”

“Are you really conceding defeat after one tiny dive? I thought you had more teeth than that. Or was your display in the armory a fluke?”

“My only regret is not putting that arrow through your arrogant face!”

“I don’t know if you should be making threats, Devaliant. My hands might… just… slip.” He punctuates this by releasing one of his arms around my waist.

I yelp, clinging to his other arm. “Don’t you dare—”

We’re diving again before I can even catch my breath. His body curls around me as we plunge straight down, the water rushing up to meet us. I can almost taste the brine. The foam against my skin.

This is how I die. This insane, reckless god is going to be the death of me.

At the last possible second, mere feet from the waves, the Wolf’s wings snap out and he flattens us out into a smooth glide.

“I hate you,” I manage. “I despise you. If I had a knife right now, I’d carve out your rotten heart.”

“One would think you weren’t grateful that I grabbed you before you landed in the sea, nemesis.”

I take it back. Fuck the knife. I’ll tear his throat out with my teeth.

“You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” I grumble.

He laughs then, the sound so startled and genuine it makes my breath catch. I wonder how many other humans have had the pleasure of hearing it. That’s all it takes to unwind the tension from my muscles.

“Do you do this a lot?” I ask, once I’ve managed to calm my frantic pulse.

“Play with human girls by dropping them over open water? No, you’d be the first to inspire this particular torment.”

“Lucky me,” I grumble. “But I meant taking off and flying until you can’t see land anymore. Is that something you like?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, the silence punctuated with the rhythmic beat of his wings and the faraway cries of gulls. “No,” he finally says, soft enough that I almost miss it. “I haven’t flown for anything but duty and death in a very long time.”

Something twists beneath my ribs, a tender ache blooming like a bruise. Because I can almost see it. The male he was before the world took everything soft and gentle and left only violence behind.

It’s a dangerous thought. But as I stare out at the horizon, marveling at the salt spray kissing my cheeks, my defenses waver. Because this? It’s the loveliest thing I’ve felt in longer than I can remember. There’s a fierce sort of joy thrumming through me, bright and effervescent. I want to wrap myself in this feeling and cling to it with both hands.

“Show me,” I say, “what it was like to fly. Before.”

The Wolf goes still at my back. His hands tighten on my waist as he shifts me in his arms until we’re face to face.

The way he’s looking at me… It’s as if I’ve just handed him a blade and bared my throat. As if he’s never seen me before this moment. I realize this strange, unspoken desire goes both ways—I’m not alone in wanting to pretend, for one day, that we’re something we’re not.

“The trick,” the Wolf says, “is to surrender. To embrace the fall and trust that you’ll be caught.”

I swallow hard around the sudden lump in my throat. “That sounds like a dangerous game for a woman with no wings.”

“No more dangerous than the game we’re already playing.” His head dips, his breath ghosting across my cheek, my jaw. “I’m going to let go now, Devaliant. I need you to let me.”