Nightweaver #1

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Swirls of black ink materialize on the surface of Titus’s skin, and a winged dagger takes shape, accompanied by the phrase…

“ Nivim derai ,” I murmur, my head buzzing. In time of need. Which means… “ You’re a part of the Order?” And then it hits me. At first, I thought it could be me, considering the Order’s conversations concerning an alliance with my people, but if the prince of the Eerie is on our side… “ You’re the secret weapon!”

“Secret weapon,” he echoes, brows wriggling. “I like the sound of that.”

I open my mouth to curse him but—

“Forgive me,” Titus whispers, allowing me only a moment more to inspect the tattoo before covering it again. “Nothing against William’s judgment, but I needed to see for myself if you could be trusted.” In an instant, his sheepish grin wipes away any remaining traces of the sinister, bloodthirsty prince he portrayed himself to be. “I’m sure you understand?”

I exhale, unclenching my fists, letting my weight rest against the statue at my back. The contours of the stone dig into my shoulder blades, but the tingling sensation of relief sweeping through my body overrides any discomfort. “Trust, but verify,” I mutter, reciting another of Mother’s infamous sayings with a sigh. “In that case, you should have put in a bit more effort.”

“Oh?” Titus lifts a brow. “And what would you have suggested I do?”

I shrug. “Pull my teeth, pry off my fingernails…”

A wicked smile. “I knew I saw a spark in your eye when I mentioned torture.”

“If you wanted to torture me, you need only ask me for another dance.”

“Forgive me.” His mouth twists into a mock pout. “I rather enjoyed our dance, but if it didn’t meet your expectations, maybe you could give me another chance to—”

“For a prince”—I cut him off—“you ask for forgiveness a lot.”

His lip twitches, but his playful smirk doesn’t meet his eyes, which are heavy-lidded and sincere. “I have a lot to be sorry for.”

He glances at my throat, his gaze narrowing, as if he can see through the strip of fabric to the scars beneath. I lift my hand to block his view, but he snatches my wrist.

“Does William know?” he asks, his voice achingly tender. Familiar. Too familiar for someone I just met. Someone I spent my whole life hating.

The pit of my stomach twists, but I choke out a laugh. “About my scars? It’s hardly any secret.”

Titus frowns, releasing my wrist. “Then why hide them?”

Something like shame coils at the base of my spine. “No one was supposed to know who I am tonight.” But what I don’t say is that, for once, I wanted to be someone I wasn’t. I didn’t fight when Killian said they would have to find a way to cover my scars because I thought that for just one night, I could be something more than human. Perfect in the way that Nightweavers are perfect. I wanted to be someone else. Someone who never suffered aboard the Deathwail . Someone who didn’t know the feel of a rope crushing their windpipe. Someone who never lost their home or their brother or their freedom.

He cocks his head. “And who is that?”

I think of the way Will treated me tonight, after I spent months lying awake in my bed wondering if he was safe, if he was alive. If he missed me the way I missed him.

“No one,” I say, because I’m not sure how to answer that anymore.

Before I realize it, Titus reaches out, his fingers skimming my throat as he unwraps the yellow chiffon from my neck, discarding it on the stone floor. He gives me a look , such certainty and understanding in his deep blue gaze that it makes me wonder if he’s seen inside me, heard the words I never said aloud. “We all bear scars, Aster,” he says, his voice low. “Even Nightweavers.”

He unbuttons his shirt halfway, revealing a chest marred with puckered white marks—cruel, ugly scars left from only the deepest, most intentional cuts.

My brows furrow. “Why not have Will heal them?”

The corners of his lips turn up, a sad, knowing smile. “Why not have him heal yours?”

Titus takes a step toward me, backing me against the statue once more. I let him place his hands on either side of my head, let him encapsulate me with his body, until I feel as if the sea has wrapped me in its embrace, the scent of brine clinging to his sun-kissed skin. His blue eyes seize mine, gentle yet commanding, like the tide pulling me out into the deep.

He echoes my words from earlier this evening, his breath caressing my cheek. “You’re exactly like I thought you would be.”

“And that is?” I manage to ask, my voice hoarse.

He inclines his head so that his lips are so close to mine I don’t dare take a breath, my eyes shuttering closed. “Brave,” he murmurs, his voice as lulling and familiar as the crash of a wave. “Loyal.”

At the word, he pulls away abruptly, the absence of his presence like a physical blow to my chest. When I open my eyes, he is working to button his shirt once more. He no longer looks at me, but rather, he stares out, beyond the stone columns, at Bludgrave in the distance.

“We should head back,” he says, his expression hard.

My mouth works, but words fail me. What just happened?

Without waiting for me to follow, Titus retrieves his coat from the ground and turns on his heels, starting down the steps. I look down, where the strip of yellow chiffon lies like a wilted petal at my feet.

We all bear scars, Aster.

The prince called me brave. But I haven’t felt very brave, lately. This place—this new life—has born back the wild in me. It has forced me to hide scars I once wore with pride. To pretend to be less than what I am— who I am.

I think of Owen, laughing in the face of danger. He was brave. Brave until the last.

Maybe it’s time I stop pretending to be someone I’m not.

Maybe it’s my turn to be brave.

Titus and I walk back to the manor in silence. I follow at a slight distance, and when we’ve reached Bludgrave, only then does he look back at me, his expression unreadable. He opens his mouth, but I speak before he can.

“I’ll see you inside,” I say quickly, opening the door that leads to the kitchen and slipping through the crack before he can say a word.

Instantly, the heady savor of roasted meat fills my nostrils. I rest my back against the closed door, inhaling deeply, my lungs greedy for the aroma of baked bread, of crushed garlic and fresh-cut fruit, whipped topping and chocolate pie. I close my eyes, letting the calming babble of boiling water soothe my weary mind.

“Aster?” Father’s voice rises above the din of clanging pots and pans. He stands in the warm, golden glow of the kitchen light, wiping his hands on his grease-stained apron. “You should be at the ball,” he says, his head cocked.

“I…” I’m not sure what I’m doing here. “I thought you might need some help.”

He gives me a concerned look, as if I hit my head. “We’ve got it covered,” he says, gesturing at Martin and Sybil, who bustle about the kitchen in a frenzy. His eyes narrow on me. “Are you all right? You look—”

“I’m fine.”

“—beautiful,” he finishes, lifting his hand to cup my cheek but stopping short. His palm, coated with flour, hovers near my face. He smiles, and at once I feel like a child again.

I throw my arms around him, forgetting about his greasy apron or his powdery hands or my ball gown, already stained from the grass. He squeezes me tight, and the noise fades to a whisper. For a brief moment, I feel as if I’m rocked by the waves, safe in the cradle of the ocean. Home.

Father draws back, his face etched with concern. “What was that for?”

“Can’t a girl hug her father?”

“I’m not complaining.” He laughs, the sound so sweet and familiar it almost breaks me. But he stops abruptly, his finger hooking my chin. “Aster?”

Father brushes a tear from my cheek, smearing it with flour.

“I’m all right, Father, I just…” The words die in my throat.

The King’s Marque lies face up on the edge of the nearby countertop. Where Father signed his name all those months ago, a fresh scarlet sun appears to bleed in the candlelight.

The royal seal.

Titus … he did it. He all too literally sealed our fate. We are no longer the Oberon clan, notorious pirates of the Western Sea. We belong to the Crown. We belong to the Eerie.

Bludgrave—I once thought it would be my prison, my new Deathwail . But in this moment, all I feel is… relief. The moment I feared most has come. And yet, nothing has changed. In my heart, I am free. I am still Aster Oberon, feared and respected by all who know me. I am death at the other end of a blade. I am the undoing of queens and kingdoms. I am brave. Loyal. I am a pirate. No ring on any prince’s finger can take that away from me.

Father follows my gaze, a weary sigh rattling in his chest. “Aster, please try to understand—”

“Don’t,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s all right.” I pull back my shoulders, taking a steadying breath. “I should get back to the party.”

I give him a weak smile before turning my back to him, my head light from the pressure building between my ears.

“Wait,” Father calls out.

I turn to find him rummaging through his apron pocket. He takes my hand in both of his, his kind eyes swimming with tears that don’t fall. He smiles as I withdraw my hand to find a piece of taffy nestled in my palm.

The pressure in my head diminishes, an odd feeling of guilt building in its place. I should never have blamed Father for signing the King’s Marque. He was only trying to protect his family. And after having spent these months here, at Bludgrave… I misjudged this place—these people. If the prince of the Eerie can be good, I have a chance to be a part of something worth fighting for—a world where we won’t have to flee to the Red Island for a better life. A world Owen would have dreamed of.

“Oh, and I almost forgot.” Father turns from me, taking the milk-bottle vase from its perch near the window. “Will came here, looking for you, just before the ball.” He takes the single stem of blue salvia from the bottle and tucks it behind my ear. “He left this.”

And this one means I’m thinking of you.

Will did come looking for me, expecting to find me here. I close my fist around the piece of taffy, meeting Father’s eyes—Owen’s eyes—once more.

“Thank you, Father.”

He looks taken aback, but he grins, and it reminds me of the mischievous look Lewis gives before he gets himself into trouble. “For?”

“For doing what you thought was best for our family.” I glance about the kitchen, at the work of Father’s hands: a feast fit for a prince. My gaze lands only briefly on the King’s Marque, and I feel a strange sense of peace. Of certainty.

“I think Owen would have liked it here.”