I pay her—using one of the larger gems we smuggled out in her cloak—and tuck the box into my tunic, next to my heart. My pulse strikes a jagged rhythm against my ribs, an erratic beat of pure terror.
I have faced Sorcerer Lords. I have butchered priests. I have stared down the death of my entire House.
But the thought of asking her—of giving her the choice to reject me—makes my hands sweat.
I leave the market, turning toward the coastal road. I do not head back to the inn where we have been living in cramped, blissful squalor. I head toward the cliffs.
The house stands alone on a promontory overlooking the sea.
It is small. The walls are whitewashed stone, glowing gold in the setting sun. The roof is terra-cotta. There is a garden, currently overgrown with Paradise blossoms and wild grasses, but the soil is rich.
I unlock the front door. The iron key feels heavy in my hand.
I walk through the empty rooms. The floors are swept clean. The windows are open, letting in the roar of the ocean and the cry of the gulls.
It is not a fortress. There are no dungeons. There are no secret passages.
It is a home.
I stand in the center of what will be the bedroom. I imagine her here. I imagine her waking up without fear, brewing tea, watching the sea.
But doubts, dark and slithering, begin to uncoil in my gut.
She saved me. She loves me. She has said it, and through the Purna bond, I have felt the truth of it burn me like a brand. But she said those things when we were running for our lives. She said them when I was the only thing standing between her and death.
Now, she is free.
In Ter, humans have rights. She could leave me. She could find a man who hasn't tortured her. She could find a man whose hands aren't stained with centuries of blood. A man who is whole, not a hollowed-out ruin held together by her mercy.
Fear tastes like copper on my tongue. It is a cold, sickly sensation that makes my knees weak.
I amDfam. I have nothing to offer her but my past and my broken soul.
And this house,I remind myself, gripping the doorframe.And my hands. And my life, for as long as she will have it.
I lock the house and walk back to the city. The sun is dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange.
I find her at the inn. She is sitting on the balcony of our room, mending a tear in one of my tunics. Her dark hair is loose, catching the breeze. She looks up as I enter, and her face lights up.
The force of her smile hits me like a physical impact. It winds me.
"You're late," she says, setting the needle down.
"I had to finish something."
I cross the room. I do not loom over her. I kneel beside her chair, bringing myself to her level. I take her hands. They are rougher now, callous-tipped from the work she has taken up at the local bakery, kneading dough.
I kiss her palms. She smells of flour and salt air.
"Imas?" She leans forward, her brow furrowing. "You're shaking. What's wrong? Is it... is it Him?"
She thinks The Serpent has returned. She thinks the noise is back.
"No," I say quickly. "It is... something else."
I look into her sapphire eyes. I see the question there, the openness. I see the woman who walked into the fire for me.
I need to bind her to me. Not with magic. Not with force. I need to bind her with a promise that is terrifyingly fragile because it relies entirely on her will.
