Tristan shoved her forward.
Laila didn’t wait. She grabbed Séverin’s face, fingers threading in his hair as she lowered her lips to his, memories and promises tangling together.
We can’t do this again.
I know.
His eyes flew open, pupils blown wide. His mouth opened beneath hers and she could taste him. Blood and cloves. Her hand pressed into the cut of his cheek, and he winced into her mouth.
Kisses were not supposed to be like this. Kisses were to be witnessed by stars, not held in the presence of stale death. But as the bones rose around them, Laila saw fractals of white. They looked like pale constellations, and she thought that, perhaps, for a kiss like this, even hell would put forth stars.
29
SÉVERIN
Séverin should never have closed his eyes. He didn’t even register it happening because the whole moment seemed to occur outside the scope of his reality. Of course, she would kiss him as the world unhinged around them. Why not. Logic danced at the edges of his senses when Laila brought her lips to his.
Séverin seized her lips, felt her yield, tasted her.
She tasted impossible.
Like candied moonlight.
And then something hard rolled onto his tongue. Night Bite. He remembered, in a rush, how she had tucked it into her satchel right before they had left. Logic righted itself. Whatever horizon tipped deliriously in his mind now settled, restored.
Of course, it wasn’t a real kiss.
They had sworn off those.
Roux-Joubert yanked her back. “My moment of mercy is done.”
Séverin’s eyes narrowed. “Then come and kill me.”
Roux-Joubert’s smile gleamed manic. “If you insist.”
He slid out a knife. Séverin waited, tensing.
Come closer.
Roux-Joubert held out the knife.
And then, far above in the hidden shelves of the terraces, Séverin heard asnickof a match. A crackle lit up the air. Sulfur stamping out the stench of death. A sudden heat warmed his back, illuminating Roux-Joubert’s face as flames sprang to life in the catacombs.
Séverin pushed the Night Bite to the front of his teeth. Just as the other man turned, he spat.
Ink splattered everywhere. Black billowed out from his mouth, fanning across Roux-Joubert. Séverin jolted back as the blade grazed his neck. Roux-Joubert stumbled. A cyclone of ink surrounded him. The man in the blade-brim hat rushed toward him. Séverin struggled against the bounds of his rope. He tried to shuffle on his knees, moving out of the way. His knee skidded on the wet gravel, pitching him forward. Light gleamed off the blade and Séverin’s breath gathered in a tight knot—
Tristan launched himself at the man. Séverin tumbled, his temple knocking against a sizable boulder. Laila rushed to him, undoing the knots, swaying even as she tried to free him. The very ground beneath them was treacherous. Tristan rushed over to them, his eyes wide.
“Séverin—”
“Later,” he said. He reached out, squeezing Tristan’s hand, and then he pulled back.
Roux-Joubert howled off to the distance, but Séverin shoved aside the sound.
Laila fumbled with the rope.
“You’re welcome,” he said when the ropes slid off his wrists.
