Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
Antony
Iwas foolish to bring Thyra to the catacombs, where my darkest secret is hidden.
I wanted her to see these tunnels in case I ever needed to hide her here. Convincing myself it was a good idea to use them to reach the library without a possible incident.
But Thyra’s questions were my undoing.
All she had to do was whisper…
You aren’t such a monster as you claim to be.
I am a monster, and even if I don’t tell her how or why, I need her to remember it.
Now, my lips ache as I pull sharply back from her, releasing her from my crushing kiss, a bruising contact intended to remind her I could hurt her.
But…damn her…she isn’t afraid.
Her legs tighten around my hips, and she draws herself up closer to me, a feat that must require every muscle in her stomach. All while her blue eyes search mine.
Searching, searching…
I can’t give her answers. Only a warning. A truth she seems determined to deny, and that’s my fault because ever since last night, I’ve convinced her she’s safe with me.
“I am a monster.” My voice carries the weight of my nightmares, dark and bloodied. “You won’t survive me unless you treat me like one.”
I prepare to let her slide back to her feet. I’ve carried her longer than the blood magic required. It’s fine for her to walk on her own until we reach the next flight of stairs.
But her legs tighten around my hips, her hand flexes against my heart, and she jolts forward.
My eyes widen when her lips halt a mere breath away from mine.
Her left hand slides up my chest, and around the back of my neck, muted touches, mere sensations of pressure beneath my armor, but then her fingers slide up into my hair.
My breath leaves my chest at the heated sensations running the length of my spine, the barest stroke of her fingertips against my scalp triggering sharp pleasure.
Her voice is low, her lips close to mine. “If I want to kiss you, monster…will you let me?”
I want to. More than anything.
I need to know how she would choose to kiss me, if she would be cautious, soft, or maybe…hungry. If her mouth would travel the length of my body and finally give me the release I’ve been craving.
My reply leaves my lips. Instinctive. Final. “No.”
I can’t let her. I can’t surrender control.
I expect her to rebuke me. After all, how is it that I think I’m allowed to kiss her, but I won’t accept the reverse?
I expect her to call me out. Rage at me. As she should.
Instead, she’s quiet, only her ragged breathing betraying the quick beat of her heart.
Her lips press together, a movement that causes the very edges of her mouth to brush against mine, sending another shot of heat through my body that nearly drives me wild.
Before I can give in to it and crash into her, her whisper stops me cold.
“I will ask you again soon enough.”
It’s the same thing she said when we first flew to the Iron Kingdom. She wanted to know what she should call me, and I told her Antony, immediately regretting it.
Regret floods me now, too. Fucking, fucking regret. And now I have too many reasons for feeling it.
“Library,” I snarl, needing to move.
Abandoning any prospect of putting her back on her feet, I pull her away from the wall, only now remembering I need to retrieve my helmet.
Fucking helmet.
“Bend,” she commands me, and for some reason, my knees obey.
She leans left and scoops up the helmet from the floor, where it was lying next to me. It must have bounced off the opposite wall and right back to my feet.
She pulls it over my head, but she takes her time, first brushing the unruly strands of my hair away from my eyes, trailing her fingertips around my ears, before dragging the metal slowly down over my head.
I don’t wait for her to finish before I lurch forward, don’t care that the metal rams the final inch because of the way I jolt.
Her hands land on my shoulders, and she holds on as I stride along the corridor and carry her to the staircase at its end.
While locked cells sit at the other end of the corridor, this end contains multiple arched doorways that lead to other corridors, each tunnel providing entry into every tower in the Constellation.
There’s even a door into Galla’s quarters. Of course, she boarded it up on her side long ago, lining the inside of the boards with iron for good measure. I suspect she worried someone might push her through it more than she fears I’ll kill her in her sleep.
But Galla is farthest from my mind right now.
The faster I walk, the more strongly I inhale the scent of Thyra’s hair, the elusive scent of roses.
I hurry to the top of the stairs as quickly as I can.
“Stay close,” I tell her as I push open the door, step through the blood magic, and exit into the dimly lit room beyond.
I sense Thyra’s deep exhale as she unfolds herself from around me and finally slides to her feet.
She shivers as if she’s shaking herself off. I know too well the cloying sensation of passing through that cold, blood magic before it became attuned to me.
I can’t shake off the memories so easily. It didn’t matter that I was the heir. Blood magic is bound by rules, not reason. It would have killed me if my father hadn’t been carrying me.
Now, we face new dangers—even if Thyra doesn’t know it yet.
We’ve stepped into the darkened back corner of the most dangerous chamber in the library, a section that’s locked off to everyone except the royal family. The ancestral books in this area contain powerful magic. Some tomes, even Mother won’t dare open.
The walls diagonally opposite us are covered in head-height shelves, on which the most treacherous books are neatly displayed, each one sitting upright on its own individual stand.
In the center of the room, multiple glass cases sit at waist-height and side-by-side so that together they can be used as a table.
Within one of those glass cases is the book I want Thyra to read.
My only dilemma is whether or not to take her directly to it or to ease her through the other knowledge in this section first.
Unfortunately, the decision is not entirely mine to make.
It was Cassia who discovered that one other fae outside our family is able to access this forbidden area and has been secretly doing so for years.
I seek the shadow in the far corner of the room near the only other door. “Emiliana?”
She slides out of the shadows and onto her knees, bowing her head. “My king. Cassia told me you needed me.”
I move toward her, gratified that Thyra keeps a scant step ahead of me.
Quickly, I note the fresh paint on Emiliana’s face, pure white, no stars.
She’s dressed in a hooded white cloak, beneath which is a tightly fitted bodice, long pants, and white boots, the outfit Mother’s ladies wear when they’re running errands.
It alerts other fae to stay out of their way or face Galla’s wrath if her lady is delayed.
“How long do you have?”
She stays on her knees, head bowed, although I don’t miss the furtive upward glance she casts at Thyra. “Not long.”
Damn. There’s no easing Thyra into this situation.
To Emiliana, I say, “Rise.”
The lady obeys me, but she keeps her distance from Thyra, edging toward me instead. It’s unusual for any fae to seek refuge at my side. Thyra must have made a lasting impression at Court this morning.
“You want me to open the Chronicle,” Emiliana says, her expression deadpan as she accurately anticipates why I’ve asked her to come here.
As for how she feels about it, her body language is subtle, and her facial expressions won’t reveal a thing.
It’s the only way she’s survived Mother’s Court.
Nothing Emiliana says or does will reveal what she really thinks, although her hesitation to join Mother in laughter this morning may not have gone unnoticed.
“I do.” I stare her down. “You will.”
“Of course, my king,” she answers, continually impassive as she sweeps the long way around me, furthest from Thyra, to reach the glass cases.
“You will also tell the Oracle everything you know about the False Queen’s curse, including the rumors about how it could be broken,” I say, following after Emiliana.
She doesn’t falter, but I’ve learned her tells from her interactions with Victor, the smallest twitch of her fingers conveying her unhappiness as she reaches for the top of the nearest glass case.
“Surely the Oracle already knows everything I could tell her,” Emiliana replies.
“I’m sure she does,” I reply just as smoothly. “But she will be better placed to advise me if she’s fully informed of what my people know.”
“Very well.” Emiliana bends to open the case and slide out the glass drawer at the top of it.
Thyra may not recognize Emiliana’s tells, but I’m certain she’s perceptive enough to understand that Emiliana’s wary of her.
Still, I can’t allow Thyra to assume that the confidence with which Emiliana handles this book applies to everyone.
I step between Thyra and the tome. “We call this book the Chronicle. Its name and appearance give the impression it’s harmless, but its pages have killed. Emiliana must disengage the protective spells around it before you can touch it.”
“Why her?” Thyra asks, and I’m pleased to detect a hint of condescension in her tone. A continuation of her facade this morning.
It clearly rankles Emiliana, and I’m surprised by how much she shows it, although she seems determined to rein herself in.
Her voice calm, she replies, “Because I’m descended from the Scribes who created this book.”
Thyra takes a moment, her eyes narrowing. “You speak of the Ferocie Scribes.”
“Similar to the Lethians, whose beautiful threads you now sully,” Emiliana says, not a hint of derision in her tone despite her barbed choice of words, “the Ferocie Scribes infused magic into their drawings. If it were up to me, you would never lay eyes on my ancestor’s art. But that isn’t my decision to make.”
Her hands rest lightly on the book’s surface. The twitch of her forefinger tells me she fears my anger now that she’s insulted Thyra.