My words die as Esme emerges from the inner ruins she retreated to earlier for privacy. Even in the darkness she glows. Something catches in my chest like a thorn. Something that makes breathing difficult, as if the air itself refuses to enter my lungs in her presence. She’s changed into loose sleeping clothes, but she moves with the same fluid grace that makes my skin burn, that makes me ache in places I’ve spent centuries keeping numb.
Sam hovers behind her like a shadow, his large frame awkward against the delicate fae architecture, too solid, too mortal for the ethereal setting. His presence grates against my senses, a reminder that whatever pull I feel toward Esme means nothing. She’s bonded to him, mated in ways that transcends the politics of our world. Bound by forces older than my jealousy, stronger than my longing.
“We should move at first light,” I announce, forcing my eyes away from her, focusing instead on something in the distance. “There are patrols in the western quadrant. I’d rather not risk an encounter.” My voice is all business, cold and precise as a blade.
Rue snorts, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “By ‘patrols’, do you mean the one you just gutted and fed to the forest? The one whose blood still stains your left boot, if anyone’s looking closely?”
Esme’s head snaps up, her strange, mirrorlike eyes finding mine with unerring accuracy. “What is he talking about?” Her voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it, not fear, but something sharper. Concern, perhaps, or disappointment.
“One of my father’s scouts,” I say flatly, refusing to soften the truth. She deserves at least honesty, if nothing else. “He won’t be reporting back.”
Sam growls low in his throat, stepping closer to Esme, a protective hand coming to rest at the small of her back. “You didn’t think to mention this? We could all be in danger.” His eyes flash with anger.
“If there was danger, wolf, you’d be dead already.” I bare my teeth in what could generously be called a smile, though it contains no warmth. “I handled it.”
“By ‘handled’, you mean murdered,” Sam spits, his own teeth showing in a grimace of disgust.
“I mean I protectedher!” I snarl back, the words hanging in the air like something heavier than they should be. A truth I hadn’t meant to reveal so plainly. It’s there now, impossible to take back, a declaration of intent neither of us can ignore.
Esme steps between us, one hand on Sam’s chest, the other reaching toward me but stopping short, hovering in the space between us like a broken promise. “That’s enough. Both of you.” Her gaze settles on me, unflinching. “Was he alone?”
“Yes.” I meet her eyes, challenging her to question me further, to doubt my assessment. “For now.” The threat hangs in the air, unspoken but understood. My father isn’t finished with us.
Rue claps his hands together, the sound echoing unnaturally through the ruins, startling a nest of nocturnal birds into flight. “Well! This is all delightfully tense. While you three sort out your complicated little triangle, I’ll be taking first watch.” He saunters past me, patting my shoulder with infuriating familiarity. “Try not to kill each other, or fuck. Actually, I don’t care which, just keep it quiet.”
“Rue,” I warn, but he’s already disappeared into the shadows, his laughter trailing behind him like a ribbon of sound, mocking and affectionate all at once.
Sam glares at me, eyes filled with a mixture of hostility and grudging acknowledgment. Then he turns to Esme, his expression softening immediately. “We should rest. We have a long journey ahead.”
She nods, but her eyes linger on me, searching for something I can’t, won’t, give her. “Locke?—”
“Go with your mate,” I cut her off, my voice like ice, like the frozen wasteland I pretend to be. “I’ll relieve Rue in a few hours.”
I turn away before I can see the hurt in her eyes, before I can witness the damage my coldness inflicts. It’s better this way, better that she hate me, better that she believes I’m nothing but her cold, dutiful escort. The alternative is far more dangerous. For both of us.
I retreat to the far edge of the courtyard, claiming a spot beneath a half-collapsed archway. From here, I can see the entire camp and still keep an eye on the forest beyond, where shadows move with purpose and the trees themselves seem to lean in, listening. The moss beneath me is damp, soakingthrough my leathers, but I’ve endured worse discomforts. This chill is nothing compared to the cold I cultivate within.
Sleep refuses to come. Instead, my mind replays the moment when I first saw her, carried into our realm, half-dead, her white hair matted with blood and dirt. Something within me had shifted then, like tectonic plates realigning, like the world suddenly tilted on its axis. I’d known even as I watched the wolf cradle her broken body that I would die for her if necessary. That I would kill for her without hesitation. That I would burn down the world if it meant keeping her safe.
What kind of monster does that make me? To desire what belongs to another? To covet a bond I have no right to claim? To imagine, in moments of weakness, what it would be like to hear her call me hers?
A sudden whisper of movement yanks me from my thoughts. I’m on my feet in an instant, dagger drawn, muscles coiled to strike, only to find Esme standing a few paces away again. She’s wrapped in a dark cloak this time, the fabric pooling around her feet like liquid shadow. The garment makes her look like a spirit from the old stories, the kind that lure unwary travelers to their doom with promises of beauty and warmth.
“You move like a ghost,” I mutter, sheathing my blade, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickens at her proximity.
“And you look like you’re expecting one.” She steps closer, the dim light catching on her features, highlighting the elegant curve of her cheekbone, the delicate arch of her brow. “You’re not sleeping.” It’s not a question.
“Neither are you,” I counter, crossing my arms as if that could create a barrier between us.
She shrugs, a small, elegant movement that makes the cloak ripple like water. “I saw too much death today to close my eyes.” She pauses, studying me with those unnerving, beautiful eyes. “Was it quick? The scout.”
“Quick enough,” I reply, remembering the look of surprise in Kek’s eyes, the way understanding had dawned too late.
She nods, as if she expected nothing less. “My mother used to say that death should always be merciful, even for your enemies.”
“Cashira isn’t fae,” I point out, my tone sharper than intended. “We have different philosophies about mercy.” Different ideas about what constitutes kindness in killing.
Her lips curve in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, that carries a sadness I want to erase. “And what’s your philosophy, Locke Erron? Beyond the ice and daggers?”
