And the words. Finally complete, painstakingly reconstructed from half a dozen sources, verified against every text we could find.
The ritual is ready.
"Tomorrow," Kess says, standing in the throne room where the silver circle has been drawn on the stone floor. She's five and a half months pregnant now, the twins heavy in her belly, our son's movements increasingly aggressive as the curse nears activation. "We do this tomorrow."
Part of me wants to argue. Wants to find another delay, another reason to wait, anything that puts off the moment when I have to watch her absorb three hundred years of divine punishment.
But there's no more time. The curse activates in days, maybe less. Our daughter's heartbeat is already faltering sometimes, struggling against the instincts building in her brother's blood.
"Tomorrow," I agree.
She looks at me across the silver lines that will soon hold either her salvation or her death.
"If this doesn't work?—"
"It will work."
"If itdoesn't." Her voice is steady, but I can feel her fear through the bond. "You raise them. Both of them. You break the cycle."
"You already made me promise that."
"I'm making you promise again."
I cross the circle, careful not to disturb the silver, and stop in front of her. Close enough to touch, though I don't.
"I promise," I tell her. "If the worst happens, I'll raise them. I'll break the cycle. I'll be the father they deserve." I hold her gaze. "But it won't come to that. You're going to survive this, Kess. You're too stubborn to die."
"Flattery won't save you if I become a ghost and haunt you forever."
"I'd deserve it."
"You would." But she's almost smiling, and when I reach out to cup her face, she doesn't pull away. Just closes her eyes and leans into my palm like she's too tired to keep fighting.
"I love you," I tell her. "I know I've lost the right to say it. But I'm saying it anyway, because tomorrow you're going to do something incredibly brave and possibly stupid, and I want you to know that whatever happens, you're loved. Completely. By someone who doesn't deserve you but wants you anyway."
"That's not how you're supposed to declare love." Her voice is rough. "You're supposed to say you deserve me. That we deserve each other."
"I've never been good at lying to you."
Her eyes open. For a long moment she just looks at me—reading something in my face, making some decision I can't predict.
Then she rises on her toes and kisses me.
It's not a forgiveness kiss. Not a promise or a reconciliation. It's fiercer than that, hungrier—her teeth catching my lower lip, her hands fisting in my shirt, her pregnant belly pressing against me as she pulls me closer. The bond ignites between us, flooded with everything we've both been holding back.
I kiss her back with three hundred years of desperate wanting. Cup her face, angle her head, lick into her mouth until she moans against me. My hands want to roam—to relearn the body I've been starving for—but I keep them still. Let her set the pace. Let her decide how far this goes.
She breaks away gasping, her lips swollen, her eyes dark with want.
"That wasn't forgiveness," she says.
"I know."
"I'm still angry with you."
"I know."
"If I survive tomorrow, we're going to have a very long conversation about everything you did wrong and exactly how you're going to make it up to me."
