With a low growl, she let out a pulse of fire magic to try to eliminate the bad energy plaguing her. All that did was make the cooling water too hot again, and she didn’t feel any better. She started draining the bath just as she heard Carver come in. She swung toward her closed door, her heart squeezing painfully. Then he hadn’t come straight home, after all.
She listened, ready to answer if he called out to her, but the main door just latched behind him, his footsteps crossed the living room, and then his bedroom door opened and closed. He threw the lock. Sheheardit.
She blinked, the sound resounding inside her. Had he ever locked his door before? She hadn’t.
Standing, she reached for a drying cloth and wrapped it around herself with unsteady hands. Atlantis was turning out to be a lot more complicated than she’d expected. Missing keys, barely a clue, oracles who were conduits for the gods, and fake relationships not feeling fake enough sometimes.
She dried off, combed her hair too aggressively for her own good, put cream on her face and body, got dressed, and screwed up her courage enough to open her door again. Not that she was afraid of Carver. She just felt disconcerted and…guilty somehow. There were some problems you couldn’t fix.
She took a steadying breath, hoping this wasn’t one of them. Maybe he’d act normal, she would, too, and it would all be fine again. Or at least as fine as it had ever been.
But she didn’t see Carver all evening—a first since they came to Atlantis. She waited, but he didn’t give a single sign of life from his bedroom. Despite an utter lack of appetite, she ate an orange for dinner and went to bed with enough tension whipping through her that she worried she might accidentally burn down the building.
“You really are an idiot,” she muttered into her pillow, punching it for good measure. The problem was, she didn’t know if she was talking to herself or to Carver.
Chapter 8
Carver stirred sometime in the dead of night, surprised he’d slept at all. He scrubbed a hand down his face and groaned. What had he been thinking?
He’d easily admit to being attached to Bel in a visceral way that usually felt like an open wound. She’d dragged him out of one of the darkest times of his life sheerly byaggravatinghim until he felt something again and had somehow started to prefer her infuriating presence over the oblivion of wine. She’d kept him company, risen to every challenge, and more than challenged him back. She’d shielded him in battle and even taken a killing blow that had been meant for him. She would’ve died right then and there if his sister hadn’t had a one-time healing gift from Persephone up her sleeve. Carver owed Bel his life, figuratively and factually, and he was here because there was no way in the Underworld he would ever have watched her walk off to face the unknown alone.
And now he’d gone and messed it all up. He blamed sacrificial virgins and Bel admitting to not knowing what she was missing. Two birds, one stone. He blamed himself more. As soon as he’d thought maybehecould show her intimacy—he sure as Hades didn’t want someone else doing it—as well as take her off this new potentially-to-be-sacrificed list, he couldn’t shake the idea. Sitting there on the beach, her skin warm with a peachy glow and her wild red hair sparkingfree, it had seemed like a decent plan—until she exploded into flames to get rid of him.
Of course she didn’t want to kiss him. Theirs was definitely a love-hate relationship, but it wasn’tthatkind of love. It never had been.
A shot of tight, tense heat whipped through him. Or, ithadn’tbeen.
With a low curse, Carver threw back the sheet and stood. He might be confused, but Bel obviously wasn’t. The soreness of his reddened skin reminded him of just how clear she’d been.
He splashed water over his face, trying to cool down. It didn’t work. Too much of the fire was on the inside, along with an unease that took hold of his gut and grew. The whole episode on the beach reminded him now of one of those strange and baffling dreams he couldn’t quite recall in detail. Part good, part bad, part blurred and unnerving. Unfortunately, unlike dreams, there was no way he was forgetting this by morning.
A low, humorless laugh scraped his throat. Everyone in Atlantis thought they were married. It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, just until Bel took the throne and could make the rules she wanted. But now months had gone by, and maybe he’d gotten a little too used to the idea of being her husband.
Something in his chest shifted, a sudden contraction that made it hard to breathe. He remembered that feeling from when Konstantina used to cross paths with him unexpectedly in the village. He’d loved her. A part of him always would. She was home and youth and dreams of the future and first passion all wrapped into one. And she’d loved him, too—just not enough to choose him over the lure of greater comforts. He’d always believed she was as beautiful inside as out, but it was her beauty that tore them apart. A rich Magoi saw her and set his sights onher without understanding who she was or where she was from. A village girl? Hoi Polloi? It didn’t matter. Konstantina was a trophy for any arm. She weighed her options and left him in a matter of days. They’d been all but engaged. He’d thought she might be pregnant with his child. She’d left without even saying goodbye, and he’d spiraled into his first drunken haze.
Carver gripped the basin he stood over, his knuckles turning white and water dripping off his chin. All his hopes, all their plans…washed away by pretty promises he couldn’t make at the time. A few years later, his family ruled all of Thalyria, he was a prince, and he had more riches than anyone could ever need or want. But Konstantina was dead, and she’d already made her choice.Hehadn’t been enough.
And he grew up. He faced enemy armies. He faced death. He faced curses. He faced monsters. And he found his best friend. His heart jerked painfully again. He didn’t want the kind of love that came with a tally of how many feather pillows, jeweled necklaces, and fancy garden fountains he could provide. He wanted the kind of love where a woman flung herself in front of the Minotaur rather than lethimget gored. Where he could leave everything behind without regret because it meant staying inherworld.
“Godsdamnit.” Carver scoffed at his own stupidity, his face screwing up as he swiped the remaining drops of water off his jaw. He’d thought he was done lying to himself. Apparently not. Love was one thing. Attraction was another, one he hadn’t thought much about until he and Bel were sitting on that secluded beach, alone against an island, talking strategy, a little spark of jealousy souring her tone when Konstantina came up. He’d suddenly thought she was the most beautiful and captivating thing he’d ever seen.
Frustration rumbled in his chest as he reached for a dryingcloth. Somewhere along the line, Bel had replaced all those jugs of wine as his fascination of choice, and now he was addicted. Any day without her in it bored him to tears.
He glanced out his window at the now-familiar view. Darkness shrouded the harbor and the windswept hills on the peninsula beyond.Bellanca Tarva. Who’d have thought? Not him in a million moons.
And not her in any lifetime. She’d made that clear.
His nostrils flared. As he let out a slow, measured breath, somewhere close by, metal scraped on stone. Carver swiveled his head toward his closed door. Eyes narrowing, he listened. Was that sound coming frominside? Or was it just outside on the wall?
He set down his drying cloth, his senses tingling as he turned. A few silent steps brought him across the room. He’d learned from a lifetime of experience that every strange noise merited investigation. Some led to nothing. Some saved a life.
Or took one.
He reached for his sword, the grip cool and reassuring in his hand, the blade an extension of his arm. As quietly as possible, he unlocked and opened the door. The hinges creaked, and he winced, taking a moment to listen and look around before moving like a shadow into the living room. Pale moonbeams slanted through the open window. Bel hadn’t left any lamps burning from when she’d come out of her room earlier. He’d staunchly ignored her rummaging around and licked his wounds in private, dinner be damned. Her bedroom door was closed now, no evidence of light sneaking under the wooden planks that didn’t quite reach the floor.
Why, then, was a faint scratching sound coming from her room?
A chill skittered down his spine. Was she awake? Could shebe sharpening blades? That seemed unlikely in the dark unless losing fingers was her goal.
