The three of us stood in silence for a long, empty minute. Then Rafe broke it, with a hand on my forearm, firm and grounding. “We’ll get you through this,” he said.
“I know,” I said, and it felt like a lie even as I meant it.
They left, the door hissing closed behind them. I waited, breathing, counting the heartbeats until I was sure I could walk back without breaking.
Savannah lay on her side, knees drawn up, fists curled under her chin. In the pale blue light of the room, she looked more like a child than a queen. She spoke. “Bad news I assume?”
“The only thing you need to concern yourself with is how very much I love you.” I told her and then I kissed her with every bit of myself I had to give.
I took her into my arms and made love to her like there was no tomorrow because there might not be. After, I lay down beside her and wrapped my body around hers, not for comfort, but for the knowledge that I could. That she was still here. The room was quiet except for her breathing. The white noise of the city filtered through triple-paned glass.
I did not sleep. I traced every possible contingency, every path to violence, every last-ditch ploy and gamble. I counted the minutes to sunrise, and when she turned in her sleep and pressed her face to my chest, I held her there until my arms went numb.
I let her have the illusion of safety. For now.
But I would never let them have her. Not while there was a drop of blood in my body. Not while I could still tear the world open and drag her through it, screaming or not.
Let Declan have his votes. Let the Council make its plans.
I had mine.
Morning arrived with the taste of metal in my mouth, like a knife left to soak in tap water. The hour was gray and soured by anticipation. I lay on my back and watched the first cracks of light crawl across the hotel ceiling, tracing the faint lines where the drywall had been joined and sanded, painted over again and again but never made seamless.
Savannah woke with a sharp intake of breath, her hands clutching at the bedsheet as if she expected it to be a shroud. I said nothing, and neither did she. We got out of bed like convicts summoned for a last walk.
She drifted to the window and stared out, naked, unselfconscious, her body marked by the bruises and bites I’d left on her, my claim written in purple and gold across her skin. She didn’t ask me to cover her, didn’t shrink from the light. If anything, she seemed to take strength from it.
I showered first, turning the water so hot it skinned the residue of sleep from my muscles. I dressed in the suit Rafe’s people had hung in the closet—black, sharp enough to cut, the tie a matte burgundy that looked almost brown unless you knew what to look for. I fumbled with the knot, fingers too thick and angry for the fine work, and had to re-tie it three times before it looked like something a living man might wear to his own trial.
She chose a black dress from the suitcase; something simple and sleeveless, no jewelry except for the crescent-moon pendant Juliet had given her. It was a mourner’s dress, a dress for any woman who expected to be seen and remembered. She topped it with a black leather blazer. Simple. Elegant. Her hair wasa deep red warning sign against her pale skin, big waves resting at her waist.
We stood in front of the mirror, side by side. I hardly recognized the two of us.
“You ready?” I asked. My voice came out hoarse.
She didn’t answer, but slipped her hand into mine. Her fingers trembled, but only a little.
The walk to the Council was an exercise in denial. The lobby was empty except for two vampires and the few other staff who were milling about. The streets outside were washed clean by last night’s rain, but the city’s grime lay just beneath, waiting for the sun to fail.
The Council’s building was a crypt from another age: stone older than the Republic, steel and glass added like afterthoughts to impress a line of visiting dignitaries. A line of flags hung limp on their poles, the wind dead or too frightened to move.
Inside, the guards wore earpieces and bored expressions, but their eyes tracked every movement, every hitch in Savannah’s stride. She walked with her chin up, but I saw the way her shoulder blades tensed under the fabric, ready for a blow.
We passed the checkpoint, took the elevator up, and emerged into the corridor outside the main chamber. It smelled of old incense, burnt coffee, and the recycled air of a dozen power struggles. I saw the Kozlovs at the far end, Lucia and King Kazimir flanked by a pair of identical, silent ghouls. Lucia caught Savannah’s eye and gave her a tiny nod, less encouragement than recognition—two survivors passing in the hallway of a ruined girls’ school.
Bronc and Juliet were already waiting. Bronc’s tie was off-center, his hands in his pockets, but his eyes had the look of a man running out of time. Juliet wore blue again, her hair tight, her lips the color of dried blood.
They spoke in low voices until the doors to the chamber yawned open and a guard beckoned us in. We filed inside, two by two, like animals onto an ark with only one level and a leaky hull.
The Council chamber was a cathedral of authority, every stone soaked in the sweat and excrement of centuries of wrangling. Twelve thrones in a semicircle, each occupied by a representative of some supernatural territory or species. The rest of the seats were filled with spectators—witches in severe dresses, vampires with faces like surgical instruments, the odd warlock or hellhound in borrowed human skin.
At the far end of the aisle, behind a stone dais, Declan waited. He wore a suit the color of dried liver, his tie knotted perfectly, every hair in place. Beside him was Dominic, the rival king, who looked bored already and was scrolling through a phone as if awaiting a lunch reservation. I felt my wolf rise and bristle at the sight, but I kept it chained in the back of my mind.
The crowd noise dropped to nothing when we entered. We took our seats near the front, Rafe on my right, Savannah on my left, Juliet and Bronc behind us. The air was cold, the kind of institutional cold that no radiator or body heat could ever soften.
The Councilwoman—same paper-white witch from the day before—banged a gavel. “This session will address the disposition of the disputed mate bond between Bridger Hardin and Savannah Calloway, with respect to Council law and existing treaties.”
She flicked her gaze to Savannah. “The defendant may speak.”
