Vesper flicked his tail with a suspicious glance. “Why not go buy your spoon back?”
A throaty, phlegmy scoff sounded. “Goblins don’t trade in coin. They trade in unfair bargains and curses.Nevermake a deal with a goblin.” Durik shook his head, regret painting his features. “The spoon can’t be purchased. You’ll have to take it.”
Mav’s jaw dropped. “Wait—you want us tostealit from the goblins?”
Durik nodded. “I can’t go back there. Last time, I barely leftwith my life. Now they know my face, and it’s too dangerous to show it again.”
Tension settled in the air as my companions deliberated.
Thistle’s eyes narrowed at Durik. “If we retrieve your spoon, you’ll give us the invitation?”
“Yes.”
Branrir extended a hand. “Then we’ve got a deal.”
The troll clasped Branrir’s hand in a shake before wrapping the invitation and tucking it into his bag. “But don’t cheat me. I’ll know if you bring back a replica. This is exactly what it looks like,” Durik said, handing a small sketch to Thistle. “I found it in a shop calledProngs, there’s a large fork on the sign, you can’t miss it.”
We had reached an accord. A ridiculous, possibly dangerous agreement—but it was our only path to the capital. As I glanced around the table at the others, I was perplexed to find they seemed more afraid of this place than any foe we had faced thus far. A sense of anxious anticipation wove around us as the decision solidified.
We were going to Rouzbeh.
The goblin black market.
To steal a spoon.
20
MAV
After dinner, Quinn and I were alone again in our room. She stood near the bed, shoulders tense as her fingers fumbled with the ties of her dress.
“Could I call upon you once again?”
“The laces?”
She nodded once, sweeping her dark hair forward over one shoulder, exposing the pale line of her neck. I swallowed—hard—and bridged the distance. I’d helped her with the corset earlier, but loosening it felt far more intimate. The laces began at the nape of her neck, a crisscross of ribbon trailing to the small of her back. Her scent wrapped around me, subtle and disarming: lavender and linen tangled in summer warmth.
I loosened the first knot.
She released a near inaudible exhale.
The second knot slipped free, then the third. My hands moved with measured care, but my thoughts were chaotic. I tried to focus on the rhythm—undo, loosen, pull. But every quiet breath she drew was a distraction, every small reaction a secretonly she and I knew. Her stillness disarmed me. It was trust, raw and unspoken. I didn’t deserve it.
Don’t think about how soft her skin looks.
Don’t think about what it would feel like to let your hands drift lower.
Don’t think about what you want.
Finish the laces, Bassiano.
The final loop came free.
“All done.” I retreated a pace, as if distance had a chance of smothering desire I wasn’t supposed to be having.
Quinn gathered her nightdress and vanished behind the privacy screen.
I rubbed my hands together, as if I could scrape the ghost of her from my skin. Changing into the clothing I intended to sleep in, I pretended that thin panels of wood didn’t separate me from a disrobing Quinn. Pretended I wasn’t imagining the shape of her silhouette or the pale shimmer of her skin. Pretended I wasn’t burning for her.
