THIRTY-EIGHT
The pup hasn’t moved in an hour. Not since we carried it through the postern to Miradores, leaving my stricken family behind.
He’s finally sleeping, curled into a tight crescent on the foot of Bishop’s bed, his nose tucked under one paw, the tiny ivory nubs on his head catching the lamplight. Every so often, a leg twitches.
It’s the most peaceful thing I’ve seen in months.
Lenora took one look at us when we came through the postern—a wolf pup in my arms and blood on Bishop’s clothing—and didn’t say a word.
She just marched to the kitchen, put a kettle on, set a saucer of cream on the floor, and went to find old towels.
When she came back, she had a jar of salve bearing the Leontian seal and the unflappable face of a woman who’s seen worse.
Now in my room, Bishop’s sleeves are pushed to his elbows, his hair coming loose from its leather tie, and there’s blood on his shirt that doesn’t belong to him. He looks like he’s been dragged through all seven hells, but he’s staring at my wrist like it’s offended him personally.
“Stop scowling,” I say. “He barely touched me.”
“He cut you.”
“Barely.”
His eyes flick up, unamused.
It doesn’t matter that he carved my would-be assassin’s heart out. Part of him is still stuck back in those woods where I almost died.
Considering I left a fair bit of my pride back there, I get it.
Between the bits of leaves, dried blood, and the patches where Stefan’s icy magic soaked through the fabric, my clothes were unsalvageable.
Bishop doesn’t even seem distracted by the thin shift I slipped into as soon as we were alone. Usually, he finds its sheerness inspiring. But he hasn’t said a single inappropriate thing. He has, in fact, been so studiously not-inappropriate that I’m almost offended.
He rinses a cloth in the basin and starts working his way up my forearm methodically, studying each wound in the light before he cleans it.
I’m only a little worse for wear. A slender scratch where a bramble caught me. A bruise the size of a fingertip on the inside of my elbow where the guard’s grip locked. A welt across my throat, which I refuse to think about.
The frozen sensation from Stefan’s hand is gone. Mostly. Just a shadow of a frostbite lingers.
“Tilt your chin up.”
I comply, but when the warm, wet cloth touches the welt on my throat, my eyes water. I keep them open and focused on the ceiling, hoping he doesn’t notice. And honestly, the pain is mild compared to the fear slowly edging its way back into my thoughts.
“I felt something tonight, something dark,” I whisper. “I think it was magic.”
He’s silent for a moment as he wrings out the cloth. When he finally dips his fingers into the salve and starts working it into the wound, his touch is so gentle I barely feel it.
“I told the queen you were injured and we would see her when you were feeling better,” he says at last, changing the subject.
Now who’s avoiding my destiny?
I roll my eyes at him. “What will they do when I have my magic?”
He shakes his head and starts in with the salve again. “They will do nothing.”
“But I’m a Ravenell. Aren’t you afraid, at least?” He has to be. He shares my bed.
Bishop takes my hand and squeezes. “Not of you. Never of you,” he says, as though he senses that this is the question I really need answered. “And Velesont is only scared of your powers because he can’t control you.”
Power hates what it can’t control. The memory swims to my mind. Hadrian said it before, but it’s still true now.
“But, Arden, you’ve always known who you are, since the very first night we met. No one has ever controlled you,” he reminds me. “Magic certainly won’t be able to, either.”
The words soothe something the salve can’t touch.
“Freezing people is a stupid power,” I mutter, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m just going to thaw.”
“Not if he kept you in place long enough to get what he wanted.” He releases a heavy sigh.
My heart.
Bishop takes his time tending the wounds. Finally, he sets the salve aside and picks up my hand. He turns it over, running his thumb along the inside of my wrist where the vestige left that faint, bluish bruise.
“Tell me if you lose feeling in this arm,” he says.
“I will.” I’ve never seen him this rattled. Even after that night at the docks, he stayed calm.
“I mean it, Arden.”
I use my free hand and trace an X over my heart. “I promise.”
He releases my hand and screws the lid onto the jar.
“You’re handling this well,” he says carefully.
I shrug, unable to find the energy to talk about it. “I never liked Laurel.”
Now I have a reason to hate her.
“I’ll bring charges against her tomorrow,” he promises.
“And Patron Velesont?”
“We’ll lock down all posterns within Vennaro. Cut off his access. But I can’t touch him. He knows better than to get his hands dirty.” He says it like the words taste bad.
No, people like him have other people do their dirty work for them.
And if they do get caught, they can buy their way out of it. “He’ll protect her.”
“That’s doubtful,” Bishop says, surprising me. “He doesn’t protect his people. He uses them.”
The pup makes a small snuffling sound in his sleep, rolling so his belly is up and his curled paws are raised toward the ceiling.
“What should we call him?” I ask, desperately needing the distraction.
Bishop pauses. “Excuse me?”
“He needs a name.”
Bishop stares at me like he might examine my head next. “He doesn’t.”
“Everyone needs a name,” I say. Then I add, “We won’t be able to house train him without one.”
“Arden.”
“What? He can’t just be ‘the pup’ forever.”
“Names are for pets,” he points out.
“Exactly.”
Bishop’s face rearranges into the expression he wears right before he tells me something I’m not going to like.
So, I beat him to it. “He’s staying.”
“Arden.”
“Bishop,” I repeat in the same exasperated tone.
“Horned wolves grow to the size of ponies. He cannot live in the house.”
But I won’t abandon the pup. Ever. I made a promise. “Luckily, Miradores is large enough to parade a carriage and horses through.”
Bishop pinches the bridge of his nose. His head drops for a moment. His shoulders are shaking, very slightly, and after a second, I realize he’s quietly laughing.
I don’t think at me. Maybe at the situation. At his own life. At the fact that it’s midnight, he’s still covered in blood, and we’re arguing about whether a dangerous beast gets house privileges.
The sight of him laughing steals my breath.
The wolf is definitely staying.
By the time he straightens, he’s composed again, but light dances in his eyes.
“You’re impossible.”
He shakes his head as he begins stripping out of his ruined clothes.
“And I always will be. Maybe you should kick me out,” I tease, but even as I say it, heaviness settles through me.
One day, he might need to.
I push the thought away and focus on the fact that Bishop is now half naked. It brightens my mood considerably.
But he doesn’t come to bed. Instead, he stands over me, gaze skimming across my skin as he catalogues my injuries one more time.
“I’m going to live.” It’s meant as a joke, but something tells me he needs to hear me say it.
Finally, he sits beside me and wraps an arm around my shoulders. Drawing me closer, he kisses my forehead.
“I was scared,” he murmurs against my skin.
“Me too.” I can admit it.
Bishop doesn’t say anything else for a few moments. He just holds me.
But I can’t stop thinking about the Cinderwald, about Laurel, about the man who tried to kill me. And the one who claimed his life for it.
“You took his heart,” I say quietly. “Are you okay?”
Bishop raises his other hand to my cheek and turns my chin so I’m facing him. He doesn’t hide the pain from me, as though the long night has worn a hole through the wall he’s built around himself.
“Let’s talk about it tomorrow,” he says, clearly not ready to tear down all his defenses yet. “Tonight, I want—”
He pauses, and in the place of pain is a hunger that sends a dizzying rush of blood to my brain. Along with several other parts of me.
“Tonight, I want this,” he says and brings his lips to mine, lingering there as if he’s proving to himself that I’m really here. Still in one piece. Alive.
I kiss him back like I am promising something. I don’t know what, but it feels important.
He makes a low sound against my mouth as his hand slides up the back of my neck into my hair.
Shifting, he grabs my hips and lowers my body to the mattress.
My legs close around him on instinct, but I pull away a fraction of an inch.
I nod toward the foot of the bed, where the pup is watching. “Not in front of the baby.”
His brows lift. “I doubt he’ll mind.”
“Bishop.”
He sighs, but instead of rolling off me, he raises a hand. The vestiges on his arm glow, and a second later, a blast of wind throws open the balcony door. The sounds of the sea below rush into the room, a cool spring breeze following.
“Go outside,” he orders the pup.
The pup lifts his head and blinks his wide blue eyes like he’s trying desperately to understand Bishop’s command.
“He’s scared,” I whisper.
Suddenly in a new place. His family gone. Unsure if he can trust the people who brought him here.
It’s a feeling I understand all too well.
But Bishop waves his hand toward the open door. “Go on. I want to make love to my woman.”
The pup’s eyes widen to saucers, and he lets out a soft whimper.
“Fine,” Bishop sighs. Apparently, even he isn’t immune to those eyes. He settles on his back and reaches for me.
I nestle into his arms, his body a warm cocoon from the ocean air drifting into the bedroom. “He tried to save me, too,” I whisper, and Bishop stills. “When Stefan killed his mother and came after me, he jumped between us.”
I would have died to protect that pup.
Bishop watches the pup settle back at the foot of the bed. “So, you’re a little hero, huh?” He groans. “He can stay for now.”
“Thank you.” I plant a kiss on his chest, right on the vestige that covers his heart. He pulls me closer, and for the first time in a very long time, it feels like everything is going to be okay.
Whatever magic is inside me, whatever the Stars have planned, I’m no longer afraid.
I’m not running anymore. I’m here. Alive. Surrounded by love.
And I’ll fight anyone who tries to take it away from me.