Chapter Seventeen
I stand from my chair so quickly it falls, banging against the floor. “What? No—she can’t be alive—”
“She is.”
The blood rushes through me, and I wonder if my heart could actually explode from the shock, from the relief.
Remembering his words, I grip the edge of the table for support.
I might pass out. I lean forward, breathe slow and steady, try to hold myself in before I puddle on the floor in a heap, just like the day I learned of Aven’s death.
But she’s not dead at all. “My God. I hoped we might find a way to bring her back, but I didn’t ever believe she might still be alive. ”
“Well, she is.” His expression seems purposefully blank, carefully emotionless.
“But there was a body,” I cry, blinking the tears from my eyes. The flowers against her blue shawl, the grave, the pain. “Whose was it?”
“Not hers.”
I let that realization trickle into me, slowly. Still in disbelief. Someone else is missing a sister or a daughter, a love. It’s a strange, unsettling thought, trading one person for another, trading my grief for someone else’s. “How do you know she’s alive? Where is she?”
“I’ve seen her,” he admits, and here, some of his stoic facade cracks. He adds, “In the court. You’d mentioned her name—and I recognized it. She’s with Elisavet. The demon queen—you know who I mean.”
“What?” I choke out, his answer causing me to collapse into a chair. I can’t move except to stare up at him, shocked into silence. The demon queen has Aven?
He only stares back, mouth twisted in thought. Candlelight flickering in his dark gaze.
“Talk to me!”
Running one finger along his jaw, he answers, “I’m trying to decide if I should help you. I’m trying to decide why I should.”
“But you can’t give me that information and not tell me more! That’d be sheer cruelty, even for a…” I trail off. I was going to say, A thing like you.
His deep eyes settle on me, narrowed. “I am a beast, it is true. However, you’d do well to remember I’m the only one who can help you. Though, I’m not sure it’s worth my trouble. It is dangerous for me to even be talking to you of this.”
“You are frightened of Elisavet?” I ask, then pause, a thought occurring to me. “Does she know I’m Aven’s sister?”
“No,” he answers, clipped. “And no, I’m not frightened of her. Not in the way you presume. I’m not afraid of her. Only in losing to her.”
“You hate her,” I say. “I can tell when you look at her, when you say her name. Not the way you hate me. You really, really hate her.”
“I don’t hate you like that, no. You just make me angry every time I see you. Every time I think of you.” His voice is dirty, jaw clenched.
“Well, you don’t exactly thrill me either.” I cast a hostile glance at him. Just when I thought we were making strides, now we must fight?
Frustrated, I look down at my hands. Stare at the swirls engraved into my skin—the fingertips—turn them over and admire the half-moons on my nails. How have I never noticed how beautiful my hands are? But how human they are! What can I do to help Aven?
“I have so many questions I can hardly think where to start. But my sister is alive.” I say what is most important out loud, savoring the truth, the progress.
He’s talking to me. Perhaps he’ll do more if I ask again.
“Can you help me get her back, regardless of our issues with each other? I’m desperate. I cannot manage to do it alone.”
“It would not be a simple task.” He clears his throat, moving about the room.
“Elisavet is charming, cunning, as I know you can see. She’s a lavish hostess, a generous lover.
” He goes on, ignoring my raised brow at that detail.
“She is also unflinchingly cruel, even for my kind. It will be difficult to get your sister out of Elisavet’s court.
She’s smart, bloodthirsty, and, shall we say, creative?
You haven’t seen the kinds of deaths and tortures she likes to enact, sometimes just for fun. ”
“And sometimes you do those for her,” I say ruefully. “When you go off on business, you do her dirty work.”
“Sometimes, yes. I have killed for her,” he agrees with cold resentment. Is he thinking of that sleeping couple now? “I have killed for myself. For others as well.”
“Why did you kill those men in the woods?” I finally blurt out the question I’ve been withholding.
“I didn’t like them.”
A harsh laugh rips from me. “You didn’t like them? So you tore them to pieces?”
He mulls that over, eyes reflecting the candlelight. “They were trespassing.”
“You’re lying.” I know it again, a pinch in my gut.
The way his dark eyes flash too quickly to catch with mine, then darken just a fraction more than usual, the way his lips purse a scant millimeter.
“They weren’t on your property. I could tell, there were sounds, nature, animals.
There’s none of that here, on your land. ”
He shrugs, as if to say, Close enough.
I grow more insistent. “Why did you really kill them?”
“Because.” He frowns, sitting again. “Perhaps I don’t hate you as much as you think.”
“Is that what bothered you so?” I press, recalling his vague earlier statement.
“Yes!” his reply is sharp, emphatic. “I never wanted to kill again, but when they hurt you, I wanted to kill them. And if they were suddenly resurrected before me right now, I’d obliterate them twice over.”
His admission has me reeling, and apparently him as well. He clamps his mouth shut, as though he’s said too much, but I pounce on the opening. “So will you help me save my sister?”
With a sigh, he runs his hand over the smooth, elegant planes of his face.
Then, leaning in his seat, he folds his arms and ponders my question before answering.
“I will help you save your sister, if possible. But the terms of our arrangement will not change, and you’ll stop fighting me every step of the way. Agreed?”
“Fine,” I say, meeting his challenge. It’s a better deal than I could have hoped for, and maybe, in time, our arrangement can be negotiated.
All that matters now is Aven. I go on, still heated, still hating him, and so, I can’t help the tinge of sarcasm in my words, “You help me save her, and I’ll be your faithful dancing companion. That’s what you want?”
He glances away then nods. Looks back at me. At my mouth. I lick my lips. His eyes are hard. Deep. “Yes.”
After a rather abrupt end to dinner, while the moon hangs in the sky, I pace in my room, wearing down the floor with my fidgety feet.
I can hardly believe he agreed to help me.
Oh, God, if only I could let Sélie know about Aven!
I’m sick with nervous energy, but I have no outlet.
Even dancing doesn’t tempt me right now.
I just keep thinking of everything he told me. Everything I didn’t even think to ask.
My stomach rolls with questions, and I can’t answer any of them, not until he explains more.
I force myself into a chair with the mug of warm, honeyed milk Hana brought me.
I can’t sit here panicking about Aven, making myself sick over it.
It won’t do either of us any good. I can only pray she’s safe, that we find a way to help her before…
before what? I didn’t even think to ask him why Aven’s there, what she could be doing with Elisavet in the first place.
I was so overwhelmed with the knowledge that she’s alive.
For now, such a deep and true gratitude fills me.
Aven is alive, and he’s going to help me get her back.
Sounds drift through my open window. From the grounds below comes a grunt, a smack. A waft of sweat drifts to my room, along with a hint of adrenaline. I recognize the underlying scents of him. Orrin Colehart.
I rise, setting my drink down, and walk to the window, looking to the open stretch of acres below.
It’s easy to see Mr. Brown’s white hair in the full moonlight.
He stands there, sleeves rolled up, gloves off, ducking as Orrin—shirtless—punches toward him.
Mr. Brown dodges most of the hits, graceful for an older man, until one catches him in the stomach.
Mr. Brown grunts again but recovers quickly. “Come on, sir. You can do better.”
He laughs a little, and I stare at the smooth skin of his back, the ink crossing his torso, all kinds of symbols and images, the graceful yet completely demanding way he fights.
Spars? I’m not sure exactly what they’re doing, but I can’t keep my eyes away from him, from his movements, the elegance as he twists and ducks, surprising and sharp.
It’s almost like a dance. I stand, fascinated at this switch of perspective.
He turns toward the window and glances up, seeming to know I’m watching him.
I jerk back to hide myself, though not before I catch the sight of his chest, the ripple of muscles across him, his stomach, the pattern of dark hair trailing down it, how his pants hang indecently low on his narrow hips.
I suck in a breath at the beautiful power of his body and pray he didn’t see me watching.
I shift into the safety of my room, realizing it was more like ogling.
There’s another low rumble of a rough laugh from outside. I cross my arms and glower in the direction of the sound, and after a moment, the two resume fighting, or training, whatever it may be. After a moment, my heart rate slows to a normal pace.
For the first time since arriving here, I shut my windows and the drapes.
Still, I can hear them fighting long into the evening, can still see the glint of sweat on his skin in the moon’s glow. I grimace and close my eyes. But his words, from so many nights ago, come back to me, only this time in a much different context, and in a way, even more concerning.
I’m going to make you cry for it.
I squirm in my bed, my body betraying me with the twinge of desire. Finally, I try to sleep.
I pray for a dreamless night.
Yawning, eyes heavy, I sit up in bed, attempting to orient myself in the comfort of my fine room.
I tighten up, remembering. Aven. But hope lightens my heart as I remember it all.
Orrin has agreed to help me. A warm flood of faith fills me, and I let out a breath I feel I’ve been unknowingly holding for weeks.
I shift my bleary gaze around, sensing something has changed.
My breakfast has been brought, the tray on the table, probably hours ago.
I can tell it’s late. The sun is high, the curtains have been opened to let the light in, thanks to one of the maids, and it must be midmorning already.
I must’ve slept so heavily I didn’t hear the maids coming and going.
But staring at the other wall, I forget all about the food.
I blink in disbelief at what I’m seeing. I wait for it to fade—maybe it’s just a vision. Maybe he’s teasing me. Maybe. Maybe.
But it doesn’t go away.
Slowly, I climb out of my bed and walk across the room in a daze. Because my sad, empty bookshelves have been filled. Not with one or two books. Not with a dozen.
I run my fingers along the spines in disbelief.
I don’t bother counting. There are probably hundreds.