Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Roremar
A dull ache hummed through Roremar’s chest.
After the Accords, he stopped by Desmond’s before heading to Angel’s Draw. He wanted to read through the information on the Warders of Selene, and going all the way home would have wasted time—something he didn’t have enough of with the Revels drawing closer.
The Warders were an interesting group, he was sure about that, but they were ambiguous.
They’d lived on Lyra so long ago that a lot of the history surrounding them didn’t have proven dates or facts to back it up.
There were rarely even references to Selene herself, just an almighty her that they revered, worshiped, and one daydreamed of finding.
He supposed that could be the goal of these murders, and he’d continue to research it, but he didn’t want to lose focus on concrete evidence. Things like Angel’s Draw and the drugs being pumped into the isle.
He was reviewing the notes from the families of the missing victims when Nico arrived. Their mother’s shift had been pushed later—some harvesting job that was excused from curfew—and she would be home with their siblings for a few more hours.
The schedules and myths and theories on the page blurring before him, Roremar realized he was getting nowhere. Removing his rings and the daggers from his belt, he scrubbed his hands through his hair and tried to relax.
Distracted. He’d been so easily distracted lately.
Frustration had his teeth clenching, but he pressed his palms into his eyes, lining up everything he knew mentally. The victims, the tattoo shape and placement, the locations…
Attempting to help himself focus, he pulled out one of the wooden puzzles Desmond kept here and went through the methodological steps of building it. One piece at a time, little notches clicking into place, willing his mind to assemble the pieces of the case in the same way.
His eyes entirely glazed over, operating on sheer instinct rather than any sort of conscious effort. He was almost done with the puzzle when a bolt of pain twisted behind his ribs, and he inhaled sharply.
“You okay?” Nico asked from where he was tossing crumpled paper balls into a wooden bucket, keeping track against no one.
“Fine,” Roremar breathed, taking a long sip of water as another bounced to the floor. “You suck at that by the way.”
“Like you’d be better.”
Trying to steady himself, Roremar took Nico up on the challenge, but more jabs came in quick succession, bad enough that if he didn’t know better, he’d have thought he was getting stabbed. But it wasn’t quite a physical ache.
It was more of an emotional one—the kind that ripped at your spirit so desperately, it became physical.
Like when his sisters cried and he thought his soul was being torn in two.
Or when he saw his mother’s lifeless eyes on lonely nights.
Or when he had to wake up every damn morning after a dream about his father, feeling like someone had actually reached into his chest cavity and squeezed his heart.
“What in the Fates…” he grumbled, rubbing the heel of his hand against his sternum.
“Rore?” Concern laced Nico’s voice.
Roremar’s breath caught in his throat, and he stumbled, catching himself against the table. The wooden puzzle clattered to the floor, pieces exploding in all directions. His knees buckled, the tiles looming closer.
A hand gripped his shoulder as he tried to pull in breaths. He hadn’t even heard Desmond enter, but his friend was holding him up now, his brother on his other side.
“Rore!” Desmond insisted, snapping until he met his stare. “Rore, what’s happening?”
Roremar tried to focus on Desmond, but a pair of hazel eyes flashed behind his stare, wide and pleading and terror-struck, twisting his chest until he thought he’d keel over.
“Emmeline,” Roremar gasped out, panting over every syllable. “She’s in trouble.”
Getting to the Academy was a blur. He didn’t realize how hard he ran, how badly his legs burned, and his lungs pinched as he sprinted up the hills, the stone facade looming in the distance like a haunted, moonlit nightmare that he couldn’t get close enough to.
All he knew was the panic in his every breath, twin to the terror in the hazel eyes that kept flashing through his memory, and the desperate need to strangle whoever put that look there.
Desmond and Nico were on his heels, yelling to the guards to stand down as Roremar tore past the gates. His heart beat in his ears, blood as cold as the thrashing sea in the heart of winter.
Horror shredded his bones as he ran through the corridors and saw the door to her dormitory thrown wide—as he rounded the threshold and found Emmeline huddled on the floor, her entire body shaking, and on the wall—
“Fucking Fates,” Desmond swore beneath his breath.
TO TEMPT THE FATES, AND REALMS WILL WREST,
The words dripped crimson down the plaster, and based on the smell, Roremar knew it was written in blood. Red trailed over the precious paintings and letters that, if he knew anything about Emmeline, she’d meticulously chosen and arranged on her wall.
Everything was in disarray, books and glass and water splashed across the floor and bed. Scents mingled on the air from where vials had shattered. The space was an image of her, an imprint of everything she loved and found solace in.
And it was all broken.
“Emmeline,” Roremar whispered, dropping to his knees. Glass crunched beneath his leathers, but he didn’t care.
She shook and shook, her body a leaf in the breeze from the balcony doors.
And with each wracking tremble, rage curdled in his chest. He couldn’t explain it—this instinct that he knew she was in trouble and the resulting call to defend her.
For some reason, she felt like she was his to protect, though.
And Spirits, would she have a lot to say about that. Desperation crawled through him to hear that argument, to hear any words from her lips.
“Emmeline,” he repeated, shuffling closer.
A thunder of boots told him the guards had arrived on Desmond’s and Nico’s heels, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the trembling huntress before him. Roremar inched forward until he was just in front of her.
She flinched as he crouched down, pressing his cheek to the floor to mirror her position, but she exhaled as her vision focused on him, relief cooling her terror and doing something to his chest that he didn’t quite understand.
A balm wrapped around the lump of hatred for whoever had done this to her.
“Hey, Huntress,” he whispered.
“R-reckless,” she stuttered.
One corner of his lips lifted at her taunt. Even now, she mocked him. This time, he didn’t mind.
“What happened?”
“Came home to it,” she forced out through quivering lips. Her tongue flicked across them, and Roremar tracked the movement. “Someone grabbed me.”
His anger spiked, heart galloping enough to burst through his ribs. He forced it down, taking a deep breath and focusing on her. They’d find the bastard that did this later. Right now, Emmeline needed help.
Maybe needed him.
Fates knew Roremar was good at being needed.
He cast a quick glance up at Desmond to ensure he’d heard that someone else had been in this room. Nico was outside with the guards, but his friend’s hardened amber stare promised he’d assess the scene, and Roremar gave his full attention back to Emmeline.
“Did they hurt you?” Roremar asked, much softer than the screaming in his mind.
Emmeline whimpered, her chin ducking in what he thought was a nod. She arched her neck, wincing, and the moonlight streaking through the window highlighted it. A string of oddly shaped purple bruises ringing her throat, and a shallow, bloody slice to her chest that was already healing.
Roremar’s hands fisted against the aged rug, the fabric scratching against his skin at the knowledge that someone had their hands on Emmeline, that someone had violated this space for her.
But he also could tell that releasing all that rage wouldn’t help her right now, and it certainly wouldn’t find the person responsible for his.
“Can you sit up, Huntress?” he asked. She considered that request for a long moment, searching his gaze for some sort of assurance, so Roremar added, “Can I help you?”
She gave another gentle nod and whispered a barely perceptible, “Please.”
And fuck if that broken sound didn’t carve out a place in his heart for all eternity.
Roremar rose first, wrapping an arm around Emmeline’s shoulder and propping her up right beside him. Once she was steady, she lifted her chin to look at him, hissing as the motion stretched the patchwork of bruises across her neck.
Roremar’s gaze drifted to them again, trying to place the shape, and Emmeline’s shoulders curved inward, her own stare dropping shamefully.
“No,” Roremar said gently, placing a knuckle beneath her chin to lift her attention back to his.
“Don’t hide,” he whispered. His chest ached at the tears gathered along her lashes, but she didn’t let them fall.
“Whoever did this—they are the one who should be ashamed. This is not your fault, Emmeline.”
She twirled her opal ring around her finger as his words hovered between them, neither of them saying anything else.
Spirits, why was he in such agony over her?
Why did seeing this brave, confident woman clam up threaten to shatter his entire world?
She was only one person, one who he was forced to work with, sure, but this wrenching fear was so foreign to him.
Other than his siblings and his mother—and occasionally Desmond—he wasn’t supposed to feel this level of distraught for anyone.
Yet there was no other way to describe that hole carving itself through his chest or the bloody promise of vengeance that overflowed in its wake as the deepest, most bone-deep level of devotion.
Emmeline’s eyes flicked to the message on the wall, and she inhaled a sharp breath as she read. Her eyes clenched, her hand flying to Roremar’s chest.