Chapter 15
NIK
Nik woke from the nightmare in a cold sweat.
It had unfurled as it always did, first with fire devouring flesh and bone, then screams begging for salvation. Hands burst from the wreckage, bloody fingertips latching on to the hem of his Arts Humains coat, pulling him down in an effort to claw their way upward.
Except in tonight’s dream, he saw them—their faces.
Muck and blood dribbled down Corinne Rousseau’s chin while her gray, empty eyes begged for help because her slashed throat made no noise. He should’ve wanted to kick her back into the grave, but he’d reached down to help her, and the moment her cold hand touched his, he realized why he’d done it.
It was Elara weeping crimson rivulets from the line across her neck. Elara with her warm eyes and freckled cheeks.
Nik wiped the sweat from his face.
No matter what had happened last night, she didn’t deserve that. He understood her marrow-deep hunger to break away from the past and become something entirely new.
But Elara’s past was too big of a blemish. Lafontaine would never trust her unless she turned on the rebels entirely, and Nik had no idea what stance she’d taken on the issue. A rebel wasn’t interested in escape. They wanted change. He had to keep her under control.
Which meant bringing her closer to him.
Chantal had told him to be transparent. Blai would tell him to ratchet up the charm.
Both were abysmal ideas.
With sleep far beyond his reach, he tugged on his trousers and crept down the hallway toward the kitchen.
It was his usual routine to sneak scraps from the pantry after everyone else had gone to bed.
The idle chatter and awkward silences of eating a meal with someone made his skin crawl.
It was much better to enjoy his food in silence.
Not tonight.
Elara was busy furiously whisking ingredients in a bowl. She was dressed in a pale robe, her dark hair freshly washed, making parts of the material translucent with moisture. Rather than look away, Nik allowed himself this concealed moment to study her—the version she hid from everyone else.
Elara was life incarnate. Freedom guided her hips to twirl in circles, and joy peeled her petal-soft lips upward as she whisked from memory. Her bare feet slipped across the tiles, daring to point as if in a ballet, and so help him, she began to hum.
To her, this was the most natural thing in the world, but Nik knew better.
She’d worked her whole life for this moment. Honed skills for years in order to create some of the most powerful dishes in the city. Elara was a girl with no proper tutelage, no true mentor, and yet …
She made it look so damn easy.
Jealousy burned in his core. What he wouldn’t give to be her.
To surrender himself, body and soul, to an artistry.
Even as a boy, he’d craved to do as his mother had with seed and soil—to create something the world had never seen before.
Sometimes, like last night, he allowed himself to dream of another life.
A life where the charcoal bit felt more natural in his palm than a scalpel, where a blank canvas terrified him less than a corpse.
Nik studied Elara in the hope he might find some truth to set him on the right path. Instead, she swept a dollop of batter into her mouth and heaved a dreamy sigh.
Envy gave way to something much more dangerous as he watched her savor the taste, returning to the bowl for another morsel. Nik found himself leaning forward.
Pride. Satisfaction entire.
What would it feel like to earn that from her?
What the hell was he thinking? He wasn’t interested in her. He scoffed.
Elara jumped. “Sorry, I just … Oh.”
Shit.
Her eyes slammed to the ground, an uncommon blush burning her cheeks. Did he have something on his—
He’d forgotten his nightshirt.
He had two options: retreat like a coward or act like he owned the place, which he did.
Nik tipped his chin upward and strode over to the kettle.
Elara set the bowl down. “I can leave.”
“I won’t be long,” he said sharply, lighting the burner.
When she went back to whisking, he hated how still she became. No more dancing, no more singing. Not even a smile.
“I’m not good at this,” he blurted.
“Making tea?”
“No.” He motioned between them. “People. Conversing.”
“Really?” Her brows lifted. “You were such a delight in the carriage. And again, in your office.”
“I think we weren’t communicating like partners.”
“I agree.” She nodded. “Thank you for the apology.”
“Apology? I wasn’t apologizing.”
“Then what are you doing here?” She pressed her hip against the counter. The folds of her robe shifted, revealing enough skin to dry out his mouth. And … was that a tattoo?
“It’s my home,” he snapped, “and I can go wherever I like.”
“Then I’m the intruder. Good night.”
She set the bowl down and made to move past him. Wrong. This was all wrong. He was meant to draw her in, bring her closer to his plans, not further away. How the hell was he supposed to make her stay?
“Wait.” He didn’t remember reaching out, but he was now holding her elbow, and she was frozen, staring at him with a mixture of surprise and fury.
It had been since their first carriage ride that he’d touched her, and she was just as warm and soft as he remembered.
He didn’t want to let go this time. “I … Fine. I’m sorry. I was an ass yesterday.”
Her expression flattened.
“And the days before,” he muttered. “I really was nervous.”
She studied him. “Chantal told me you’re Lafontaine’s apprentice. That must come with a lot of pressure.”
A spark of warning shot up his spine. “Chantal talks too much. But, yes. He saved me from the Restes, and I owe it to him to succeed.”
“I can understand that.”
It was the first agreement they’d been able to make, and Nik felt her soften beneath his touch. Slowly, he released her, letting his fingertips slide down the robe and dangerously close to her hand.
“Ow.” She withdrew, pulling her injured arm to her chest.
“Why didn’t you have the medics heal you?” he asked.
“I didn’t want to spend another minute there.”
“Fair.” He held up a finger. “One moment.”
He told himself not to run, at least not where she could hear him. As soon as he was up the stairs, he dashed to his office, retrieved his bag, and hurried back down in case she decided to fly away again.
She was still there, standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen.
“Please.” He motioned to the table at the window nook.
As soon as she sat, he pulled up a chair close enough that their knees brushed. It was nothing. He had to be able to thoroughly inspect and heal the wound.
The gash from the sword was deep but clean. This, at least, he could fix.
“Breathe deep. It’ll burn.” He scooped out some ointment and spread it over the cut. Elara winced, then relaxed back into his care. The longer he rubbed the wound, the more the burn would cool. It also helped that Elara softened with each stroke of his thumb.
“You’ve waited too long,” he said. “It’ll scar.”
“Add it to my collection.” She turned over her other hand, the same that had drawn him in the night they met. “You have some of your own.”
He followed her gaze to his chest, where he carried every slice of a thug’s knife, every whip of a shopkeeper’s stick after he stole, and every wretched factory burn. And then some.
“Reminders of who I never want to be again. It’s taken me a while to learn who I am.”
“Must be nice,” she replied. “To know who you are. Sometimes, I feel like I’ll never figure it out.”
He tilted his head. “But you’re so … so…”
“Brash? Insufferable?”
“Confident.”
She flushed again, and he was drunk on the power of causing it. “Do you want the truth?” She leaned in and whispered, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
He pressed a bandage to the wound. “Neither do I.”
She gasped. “Really?”
He scowled. The kettle whistled before he could say something foolish. He got up and reached for the cupboard only for his mind to stumble. He needed to keep this going, to make her comfortable. He wanted to not be alone for once.
“Would you like a cup?” he asked.
She smiled brightly. “Please.”
He ignored the annoying flip of his stomach as he prepared two drinks.
“I find tea goes best with cake,” she said.
“I’m sure it does, but I’m…” He chewed on the words. “I’m not terribly fond of sweets.”
She stared at him. “I knew you were a monster.”
She cut a slice anyway and brought it over with two forks. Two. They were supposed to share?
She dove in for a big bite and melted, eyes closed. Was this how she lived her life? All or nothing? It had to be exhausting.
And exhilarating.
Tempting enough to make him take a bite.
It was heaven. Delicate sponge cake melted into delicious cream with just the right acidity from a raspberry jelly to make his mouth tingle. Without thinking, he took another bite. And another.
“What magie did you put in this?” he asked.
“None. It’s just good cake.” She winked and sipped her tea.
No magie, and it was the best thing he’d ever eaten.
Eventually, she set her mug down and sighed. “I can’t win. I wouldn’t know the first thing to do as Souverain.”
“You could learn.”
“You said it yourself, all I can offer the Counseil is my unquestioning devotion. That’s not making change. That’s being a puppet.”
The word was a shock through his system. He’d used it to describe her long before he met her. Now, with all her complications and nuances, it was difficult to remember that’s all she could ever be.
“What would you do otherwise?” he asked. “Let’s say you don’t become Souverain; what would you like to happen?”
She reached for the recipe book, the one he now knew came from a rebel. A murderer. Carefully, she flipped a few pages—probably to conceal her mother’s name—and revealed a page near the back.
“My mother started the design before I was born. Some of my earliest memories are helping her dream up this place.”