Only when we've turned the corner, out of sight and earshot, does Zeriel release me. I immediately step away, rubbing the skin where the imprint of his fingers is already beginning to blossom. He doesn't apologize. The sky doesn't apologize for being dark, either.
By the time we reach his quarters, fatigue has settled deep into my bones. I drop into a chair, toeing off my shoes with an exhale.
“The silence is startling,” Zeriel observes in a low tone, unbuckling the blade from his belt.
“I was merely appreciating your performance,” I retort, my voice acid.
“Would you prefer I told Marrek the truth?” He pauses in his blade-maintenance ritual to favor me with a look.
“No,” I snap, pushing up from the chair and stalking to the mirror. “But you didn’t have to leave a fingerprint souvenir, either.” I tilt my head, inspecting the bruise darkening across my throat. “You know, be a betteractor.”
Or, being a gladiator, maybe he’s even forgotten the strength of his touch.
“Considering the alternative was leaving you tohissubtlety, I think you’ll manage,” Zeriel says. I glance at his reflection, catching him running a hand through his hair. His brow furrows. “What concerns me more is the unscheduled inspection. Marrek doesn't do things on a whim.”
“Maybe he already suspects you,” I mutter, repositioning thecollar of my tunic. “Honestly, why wouldn’t he? Claiming me was hardly subtle.”
He shifts out of my line of sight. “A point I’ve considered. But suspicion without proof is nothing. Until he has evidence, Marrek’s hands are tied. Which means ours must be careful.”
I turn. “Do you think he has someone following us?”
A sigh, followed by the faint rustle of clothing. “If he does, they’re good enough I haven’t felt them. And I always feel them. Tonight may have been coincidence.”
I splash water on my face, the adrenaline still sour in my veins. Torch smoke lingers in my lungs, my pulse hammering long after the danger has passed. I rinse my mouth, then turn—only to find Zeriel already in the bed.
He’s taken it the way he takes everything else: absolutely, without apology. The blanket lies low on his hips, leaving the carved planes of his chest bare in the torchlight. My gaze drags lower, catching on the twin ridges across his shoulder blades—jagged, brutal scars where wings once were. They should look like ruin, but on him they are a reminder that even maiming couldn’t strip him of power.
My gaze drops to the floor by the table, where a pile of blankets waits.
“You’ve hogged my bed for two nights,” he murmurs into the half-dark. His voice is thick with impending sleep. “Rotational sleeping builds character.”
My glare is hot enough to sear. I think of staking my claim on the bed with a flying leap, or at least yanking the blanket from him, but my head is too thick with fatigue for the requisite theatrics. Instead, I regard him with a simmer of disbelief, then try to make myself comfortable in my corner.
I lower myself onto the makeshift bed, pulling a blanket around me. “I’m sure the character I build will have a few choice words for you in the morning,” I murmur.
From the bed, a faint rumble. “Try not to say them in your sleep,” he mutters, rolling one shoulder. The motion drags thesheet lower across his hips, baring more golden skin, the sculpted ridges of his abdomen. My eyes betray me, tracing the sharp planes and brutal beauty of him before I tear them away.Asshole.
The Ironhold exhales around us, vents groaning with a shift change. Somewhere distant, a dragon keens, the sound vibrating through the pipes like a living heartbeat.
I close my eyes, but sleep is a distant shore. His breathing colonizes the silence—a slow, rhythmic tide that pulls the darkness taut.
Chapter 19
I'm nine, and our small dwelling is draped in predawn shadows. Mother shakes me awake, her face tight with fear.
“Veyra, we need to go. Now.” Her voice is hushed but urgent, her movements precise as she stuffs our meager belongings into a worn satchel.
“What's wrong?” I ask, still half-asleep.
“They're coming.” She doesn't elaborate, doesn't need to. We've moved four times in the past three years, always one step ahead of something or someone.
I dress quickly, following the well-practiced routine. We travel light, leaving little behind. As Mother secures the satchel, I notice her hands trembling.
“Did someone recognize you?” I ask, recalling how careful she always is to keep her head down, her face obscured when imperial officials pass through our district.
She hesitates, her eyes darting to the window where first light begins to seep through tattered curtains. “Not exactly,” she finally says. “But I... felt something.”
I don't understand what she means, but I've learned not to question these sudden departures. Mother's instincts have keptus alive this long.
