Chapter 54
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
RYOT
I’m not even sure who I’m talking to. Her? Roran?
My eyes are drawn to hers, and I’m struck by this overwhelming sense of …
inevitability. Roran’s velvet tongue has nothing on the enticement that is Leina’s eyes.
And sweet Serephelle, where did she get that dress?
Gold threads catch the light, igniting the embers in her eyes, while deep emerald tones make her olive skin glow.
And that scar? It isn’t a flaw; it’s a tapestry of her courage and strength that shines in a radiance more tantalizing than jewels ever could be.
I drag my gaze down. The silk skims over her body like it was poured there, dipping low in front, lower in back.
My eyes follow its path, helpless, until I get to her combat boots.
The delicacy of the silk stands in stark contrast to the battle-ready boots and the black daggers strapped to her thighs.
It’s an outfit that perfectly encapsulates the paradox that is Leina—that precious, terrifyingly mortal fragility concealing a resilient, stubborn, fearless soul.
“I was just leaving,” Roran says, breaking through the enchantment Leina weaves over me.
Mistake .
I focus on Roran, the spineless prick, because I don’t actually want to kill her .
Him, on the other hand … him, I’ve wanted to kill for years.
Leina covertly re-holsters one of her daggers. And that decides it.
Roran’s a dead man.
I prowl into the room, closing the door against curious eyes.
The door latch slips into place with a soft snap.
The sound has Roran spinning around, his hands still up in the air in a universal sign of surrender—exactly how he was when I entered.
The relief that Leina’s already handled him doesn’t last, it doesn’t even register against the fury.
Roran opens his mouth to speak as I approach, but I snap my hand out, cinching my grip around his neck before he can utter a single sound.
His eyes bug out in a very satisfying way.
“You don’t deserve to speak,” I whisper to him. “You don’t deserve to make a single, solitary sound.”
Leina wraps a hand on my arm.
“I’ve already handled him, Ryot. He was leaving.”
But I don’t hear her, not really. I’m too hyper-aware of the gratifying gurgling noises coming from Roran’s throat.
“What did he do to you?” I ask, my voice a deadly whisper. My voice is not velvet. It never has been. It’s coarse and jagged.
“Nothing,” she says. “He wasn’t able to do anything.”
Wasn’t able. Not “he didn’t do anything.” I flex my fingers, cutting off even the little gurgle of air he’d been dragging in. Roran’s eyes start to drain of life, his ineffectual clawing at my arm slows.
“Ryot,” she whispers, bringing a hand to my cheek and turning my face to look at her. Still, I keep my eyes trained on him. “He’s not worth it,” she tells me. “Let him go now. For me.”
My fingers loosen, and Roran sucks in a breath. I drag my gaze from him to her. Her perfect amber eyes stare into mine. She smiles a little, like she’s proud of me. “That’s very good.” She taps my arm. “Now, all the way. Let him go.”
I drop Roran to the ground, realizing that I’d been holding him suspended in the air by his neck. He collapses in a useless heap.
“You’re crazy,” he gets out between coughs, coming to his knees. “I’m going to your?—”
I snap a foot out, connecting precisely with his larynx. The cartilage collapses with a dull crackling noise, and Roran crumples fully onto the ground, hands clasped around his throat, as he strangles out a choked gasp and starts wheezing. I bend down to his level, and smile.
“Now,” I tell him, “everyone will see you for exactly what you are.” His eyes widen as he realizes he can’t even scream through the mangled tissue in his throat. “And that is so rewarding, it’s worth whatever little punishment the archons come up with.”
And there will be a punishment for this, despite the loose rules that govern play at the Crimson Feather.
There’s a general understanding that civilians will get hurt here; that they understand the risk of wanting to “play” with the god-like Altor.
Altor are rarely punished for the injuries, so long as no one dies.
But Roran is—was—the king’s Chancellor of Speech.
After my investigation of Selencia, the thought is disgusting in a way I’d never really considered before; that the monarchy depends on a Gifted to convey their messages and coerce the support of the people through magic somehow never registered.
Perhaps Selencia isn’t the only place where the monarchy has turned to rot.
Perhaps the rot started here, in Edessa.
The king will no doubt want Roran healed, but there’s only one healer in Faraengard capable of repairing a wound like this, and that's Elowen. And even Elowen—cursed with a dangerously soft heart and an unshakable loyalty to her father—might refuse to heal Roran. She knows better than most what he’s capable of.
Leina is staring down at us, worry etched across her face.
“Let me take out the trash,” I tell her. “And then we’ll talk.”
I grab Roran by the collar, dragging him across the soft carpet. I swing the door open to see Thalric and Nyrica standing sentry, having cleared out the onlookers. I drop Roran in the hallway. “He needs a healer. Make sure it’s not Elowen.”
Nyrica’s eyes widen, but Thalric nods. “Fucking catastrophe of a night. I knew it,” he mutters. He nods his head back toward the room. “Leina alright?”
I jerk my head into a nod. Nyrica bends down, and swings a silent, writhing Roran up over one shoulder, carrying him down the hallway toward the stairs. “You stay here,” he calls back to Thalric. “I’ll deal with this.”
Thalric takes up his spot by the door again, but catches my eye. “I’ll stand guard here. But take it from me—once you go down this path, there’s no turning back.”
I lower my voice to the barest hint of a whisper, something not even Leina can hear a few steps behind me. “Is it worth it?” There’re a few men who have formed bonds, like Thalric and Nyrica. They risk so much to be together, but they do it anyway.
Thalric looks down the hallway where Nyrica disappeared. His eyes are almost unbearably sad. “I don’t know that ‘worth it’ is the right question.” He turns his eyes back to me. “The real question is whether it’s inevitable.”
That word clocks me like a fist to the gut, and I stare at him, a feeling of dread uncurling and taking root.
“Ryot.” Leina’s angry voice yanks me back and I clear my throat at Thalric, nodding my thanks.
“We’ll be a minute,” I say, my voice surprisingly hoarse. Thalric turns, crossing his arms over his chest as he takes up a position outside the door. The only people who will get through him are the archons or the Elder. And even then, I have no doubt that he’d warn us, first.
I turn back to Leina, to the room with the floor blanketed in crimson carpet and the large bed draped in fine ivory silks and crimson pillows. One lantern on the wall lights the space, casting shadows in the corners.
I close the door, leaving us alone inside.
The fourth-floor rooms are preternaturally sound-proofed.
The walls are a foot thick and stuffed with acoustic absorbers, like rockwool and sound-isolating panels.
Turns out, a group of men who can hear a pin drop on a carpeted floor don’t like to have to listen to each other fuck all night.
Or at least, not all of them do. Comforts are taken care of here, in a way that they aren’t in the military sparsity of the Synod.
But I still flex out a shield, wrapping it around the outside of the room.
Making sure no one can see, hear, smell, taste, or touch a godsdamn thing.
And Leina … she’s … I don’t take my hand off the doorknob, clenching it with such strength that I imprint the shape of my fingers into the metal before I consciously loosen my hold.
This is dangerous.
“What the hells was that, Ryot? I’d already handled it.”
“And now I’ve made it so no one else will have to ‘handle it’ again. Or worse, wake up the next morning wishing they’d been able to.”
She pales. I’m a prick. I rub a hand down my face.
“Look, Leina?—”
“No,” she takes a step toward me. And then another and another until she’s right there, our breaths intermingling, the scent of lavender on the air. My hand spasms on the doorknob. “Tell me why you did that. You said you’ll be punished.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I growl at her, intentionally rough. To get her to back off. Whatever I need to tell her can wait. “We need to get back to the Synod, get some rest. We have a lot of ground to cover tomorrow.”
She shoves a hand into my chest. I should have taken Roran to the healer myself and let Thalric make sure she was alright. It’s not too late to walk away, to let Thalric take her home. I turn the knob to open the door.
“Don’t walk away from me!” she shouts, furious. The gold in her eyes seems to glow, her faces flushes. “For once, don’t run away! Why are you even here?”
“For you!” I finally roar, and her eyes snap open, going wide. “Because when I found out you were here, I wasn’t just worried. I was jealous beyond belief.”
I let go of the doorknob, and the anchor it represented. I’m unmoored.
I take a step toward her. “Because when I found out Roran was up here with you, I was absolutely furious.”
I bring both hands up to cup her cheeks, and I’m anchored again.
“Because when I burst in and saw you pressed against that wall, that dagger in your hand, I saw red.”
I bring my lips to her forehead and press a kiss there, one that shocks me with how gentle it is because I would have sworn there was nothing gentle in me.
“Because I have no control when it comes to you,” I confess in a broken whisper.
She brings her own hands up to cover mine, pressing my hands closer instead of pushing me away. “I’ve never asked you to have control.”
My mouth goes dry in a way that has nothing to do with fear. But it should, and not just because of the Synod or oaths or rules.
I don’t fucking deserve her.
“Tell me to leave,” I whisper raggedly into her mouth.
“Never,” she says.
There are a dozen reasons I should walk away from her.
Hells, I could list them alphabetically, each one louder than the one before.
But she rises on her tip toes, stopping just before our lips touch.
She runs her hands up my arms, gripping me by the back of my neck, pulling me down to her.
Her fingers play with my hair, and I shiver at the sensation.
I should walk away. Now. The savagery I’ve held in check is now a raging beast, battling to break free. I’ll devour her if I don’t walk out that door right now, the violence of my jealousy and rage and the desperation for her mixing into a potent cocktail.
I crave her. I loosen my grip on her face, ready to do the responsible thing. The right thing and walk away. To cage myself once more.
But … she presses her lips against mine.
“Ryot,” she whispers. And gods. My name on her lips, breathed into my own mouth, is the most intoxicating drug I’ve ever experienced. I need to hear it again. Feel it again. And again. The blood pulses in my ears until I’m deaf with it, the fury of desire for her nearly blinding me.
“Don’t make me beg,” she says.
I almost miss the way her lip quivers against mine, the way her eyes fill with vulnerability and nerves before she leans forward again and draws my bottom lip in between her teeth.
But I don’t miss it. And that vulnerable courage—that essence of Leina—is my undoing.
“By the Veil, Leina, you don’t beg for anything. You command and it’s yours. Tell me what you want.”
“You,” she says.
With a groan, I crash my lips into hers and fall into my reason for being.
Inevitable .