Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Roremar
A Fatesdamned cage.
Though, he was no better than an animal being paraded about for their loathing and to satisfy the rightful fear they had of him, a part of him agreed it was a smart decision. Who knew when Dryvius would use him again? A party full of Starsearcher elite would be the prime opportunity for chaos.
At least from this cage he could watch Emmeline. Better than being back in the barracks where he thought he’d be left for the Presentation.
Even glimpsing her—speaking to her about none of the important stuff between them—was better than wondering where she was.
Though, when he’d thought about seeing her earlier, he didn’t realize it would be in another man’s arms. His chest physically ached as that cocksucker Perry spun her around the room.
At her hand resting against his. At his fingers curling around her waist, against the soft skin he remembered as if it was burned into his own.
At the pain shooting through her eyes when she thought no one was looking.
He was looking, though. Roremar Silventa was always looking at Emmeline DeLeoste.
Studying.
Memorizing.
Dreaming.
Because she had been his for a split second in time. For one wild kiss amid the ruined seeing chamber—beneath the impossible twelve constellations this magical woman had rearranged—she was his.
Or he pretended she was.
His fingers tightened on the bars as her eyes met his again over Perry’s shoulder, and he quickly found himself recounting all the ways he knew to kill a man for touching her.
Khasson stood at the edge of the floor, watching with an amused smirk behind his wine glass.
Would he have to endure watching them together next?
A wrench twisted his heart, his lungs. He wanted her so badly it hurt to breathe.
But she wasn’t his anymore.
There won’t be a next time.
We only ruin each other.
It was for the best if he was kept away from her, but there was a lingering discomfort from last night. He’d never believe she wasn’t good for him. Her claim left a taste of doubt in the back of his throat. It wrecked him to not be able to put the pieces together, had kept him awake until dawn.
He couldn’t do anything from this fucking cage but rehash the memory. Every part of her body said she’d wanted him last night. Every look in her eye, every stuttered breath. He’d been prepared to spend the rest of his life on his knees to hear her say yes.
But she’d walked away.
And Roremar…well he would accept that if it was what she truly wanted.
He’d known from the first day he met her that Emmeline DeLeoste was the epitome of stubborn. She was a huntress in the night, taking what she wanted. At some point, she’d taken him, as well.
Now, like he’d told her to in the seeing chamber, she was letting him go.
He should accept it.
He studied her as she pulled out of Perry’s arms and slithered through the room, testing the doors until she found the one she wanted. When she was gone, he slumped against the bars and tilted his head back.
“Roomier in here than expected,” a voice said to his left.
Roremar rolled his head to the side, meeting a stern expression. “What do you want, Rian?”
The bunkmate who stood up for him against the others last night kicked the wheel of the cart Roremar’s cage was set upon. The thing was sturdy enough that it didn’t rock.
Rian shook his brown curls out of his eyes. “Was coming to check on you.”
“Why?”
A shrug and a grunt. “Don’t fancy parties.”
Rian was clearly a man of many words.
“You and me both.” Roremar sighed, looking back at the bars weaving their way into an arch overhead, Dryvius’s constellation at the peak.
“You’ve fallen far, Reckless,” Rian said as he watched the dancers.
“You don’t even know where I came from.”
Rian whispered, “I know some.”
Roremar sliced him a suspicious glare. “Like what?”
“My brother knew your father.”
Guilt clenched Roremar’s lungs, the memory of his father’s face frozen in death blaring through his mind. Of Nico’s.
His hands were sticky. The cold of the cells beneath the Trade House bit into his skin.
“What?” Roremar choked out.
“My brother was a few decades older than me. Died twelve years ago. Always spoke highly of Deacon.” Rian gave Roremar a once over, chewing his next words. Roremar hung onto every breath at the mention of his father’s name, but Rian shrugged. “Should talk about it sometime.”
Roremar forced away the nightmarish memories. “My schedule is awfully busy. May as well be now.”
A voice boomed, “Rian!” A stern man who shared Rian’s sloped shoulders stood in the middle of the dinner tables, disdain marring his wrinkled expression.
Rian’s entire frame tensed, face paling as he turned to the man Roremar could only guess was his father.
With the distraction, Roremar’s gaze dropped to Rian’s belt—to the trio of fine daggers dangling there loosely.
Without thinking, careful not to ding anything on the metal bars, his hand flashed out and relieved one of those thin blades, quickly sliding it down his boot.
“Later,” Rian muttered without looking back at Roremar.
Then, he was gone, and Roremar was once again alone in his cage, restlessness driving him crazy. Locked behind bars and kept away from Emmeline, he was more trapped than ever, and he was growing impatient.
Weapon secured, he assessed his other options. He may be fated to die in a matter of days, but that didn’t mean he’d be useless in the meantime. There was one source he’d been avoiding—one person he could ask for insight that didn’t require him getting out of the barracks at all.
To get the answers he desperately needed, he’d do it. Roremar would try to read Dryvius.
Fates fucking spare him.