Bel picked up the wine and opened it. “Now hold still.” She moved around the bathtub to face his back. “Even when it hurts. Because itwill.”
“That sounds like a threat. Very encouraging,” he said as he gingerly wiggled back to hang as far over the basin as he could. The ceramic lip bit into the backs of his thighs, but the discomfort barely registered compared to the lashes on his back. “And imperious. Practicing being queenly?”
“I don’t need practice.”
“Maybe not for the ordering-people-around part. Your subtlety and diplomacy could use some work.”
“That’s what you’re for.”
He chuckled, grimacing at the same time. Now that he’d gotten himself out of bed, moving around was surprisingly bearable, even if it wasn’t fun. Maybe Dex’s willow bark had helped. Or maybe a lifetime of war had taught him what wounds he knew he’d survive and keep fighting through.
Carver forced his shoulders back so that when Bel poured the wine, it would run straight down into the tub instead of dripping all around him. His pants would catch some of it—and be ruined. “Advisor to the queen?” he asked.
Behind him, she said, “Since you’re my husband, I’m pretty sure the title is king.”
Shock tore through him. Theypretendedto be husband and wife.You’re my husbandwas a whole different thing. He was still absorbing her startling words when the wine hit his back. Cold.Burning. He gasped. “Good gods, woman, some warning would’ve been nice!”
“How much warning do you need?” She thoroughly doused him again. “You sat. I have the wine. What did you think would happen next?”
Carver shook his head. He laughed. Gods, it hurt, but he laughed. With Bellanca Tarva,anythingcould happen next.
She drenched him, again and again. The more he growled, the more gleeful she got. So he kept growling, even whensomething better started to overwhelm the pain. For the first time in a long time, hope for himself bloomed in his chest. He saw a path ahead, and in his mind, he followed it.
Pretty soon, they’d both see where it led.
Chapter 14
Bellanca hadn’t meant to fall asleep when she’d dragged her mattress into Carver’s room and lain down next to his bed. Between the anger boiling inside her and the confused, anxious clenching of her heart, she wasn’t sure how she’d even closed her eyes, let alone drifted off. But as she opened heavy lids to pale moonlight streaming in, it was clear she’d slept deeply and for a few hours.
She tried to sit up, but something weighed down her head. Lifting her gaze, she found Carver’s arm draping off his bed and his hand tangled in her hair. Her eyes widened, her chest bunching into a hard knot. He’d wrapped a whole lock around his fist.
Frozen in place, she breathed as quietly as she could with her hard-beating pulse hurtling something close to desperation through her veins. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to fight—with each other,foreach other, for the gods who’d mandated them, for Atlantis, side by side—until they died. Fighting was what she did.
From the floor, she could see most of Carver’s sleeping face at the edge of his mattress. Dark was never really dark here. Moonlight always seemed to reflect off the harbor and bounce straight into their rooms. Everything about his face was angular—jaw, nose, cheekbones—and she knew he could cut with a harsh look as easily as with a sword. And yet… The same face she’d known for months now seemed different in so many ways. Since the day they met, they’d been tangled together like two thornbushes competing for the same space to grow, in each other’s hair and at each other’s throats, testing one another, challenging, goading, protecting, provoking… Now, he wasreallyin her hair, and it felt completely different. Their time in Atlantapol had changed too much.
Her body tightened, her blood heating as she lay there, letting herself feel the weight of his hand and the beat of her heart. How had this happened? She wasn’t supposed to want to lean into his touch. She was supposed to want to singe his fingers one by one until he stormed off in a huff.
Reaching up, she carefully untangled Carver’s hand from her hair. Because of his injured back, he slept on his stomach, his soot-black hair sweeping his forehead. She sat up, watching to make sure he didn’t stir. He looked so peaceful. That wasn’t really him, though. Carver’s blood ran just as hot as hers. Sometimes he hid it better. Sometimes he didn’t. But they were both always on the verge of eruption, as if they sprang from the same volcano. It was what drew them together and then blew them apart, over and over.
Scooting back from his bed, Bellanca flicked a concerned look over him as he slept. His bandages were still neat and in place, his strong shoulders bare and undamaged, unlike the skin in the middle of his back. She resisted the urge to smooth his hair away from his face. She couldn’t risk waking him, and tenderness wasn’t really in her nature. She’d stuck to pure efficiency as she’d coated his back in honey and wrapped clean bandages around him even though she’d sensed Carver wanting something more from her, something softer. Maybe softness was something she could learn. But maybe not. She hadn’t been able to dredge up an iota of softness as she’d taken care of him as best she could, her whole mind and body focused on revenge.
Had Carver feared she’d retaliate and wrapped her hairaround his fist before he fell completely asleep to try to keep her at home with him? Or had he just wanted to touch her, to hold some part of her in his hand?
Her heart still beating too hard for comfort, she stood and backed toward the door. Would Carver be more furious that she’d acted without him or that she’d sedated him? She hadn’t seen a way to do the first without the latter, but she’d treaded lightly with the dried herbs she’d disguised in his soup—so lightly she’d apparently fallen asleep before he had.
But now, Carver didn’t stir as she crept from his room and tiptoed to hers. The moderate dose of soporific plants must’ve finally taken hold, and she couldn’t regret giving them to him. He’d get a good night’s sleep without constant awareness of the pain he was in, and she could slip out unnoticed.
Once she left Carver’s room, it was easier to focus on what came next. She pulled on nondescript clothing—a plain tunic, pants, and boots. She strapped knives to her belt and a sword on her back, wishing she was better with the weapons and hoping she wouldn’t have to draw them. Her fire usually did the trick, and when her magic wasn’t enough, Carver always finished things off.
But not tonight. This time, Carver would rest and heal, and she’d punish Eryx and rescue Cleito on her own.
The Chaos Wizard might’ve already given them the information they needed to find the Shard of Olympus, but it wasn’t only about what they needed from Cleito. It was about what Cleito needed from them, and Bellanca refused to abandon her or let her suffer a second longer.
As a final precaution, she wet her hair and soaked a long cloth in water. She wrapped the sodden fabric around her entire head and neck, leaving only her mouth and eyes free. She had no illusions she’d flame up, and she wasn’t about to risk burningherself under the automaton helmet. Her own clothing didn’t burn—that was an integral part of her gods’-given magic—but she wasn’t certain that wearing the harpy head meant the metal wouldn’t heat up around her. She’d made mistakes—plenty of them—but she didn’t make the same ones twice. She learned and adjusted.
She left their lodgings without checking on Carver. If he’d woken up, he would’ve said something. A deep hood covered her wrapped head. She slung a bag containing the harpy helmet over her shoulder. The streets of Atlantapol turned out to be eerie in the dead of night, too calm and quiet. Calm and quiet made her skin crawl. She needed flames and noise and conflict and chaos. She never questioned herself in the middle of a battle. It was all action and reaction. There was no time to doubt or second-guess.
Not like right now, when she wondered how catastrophically Carver would react when he found out she’d done this without him.
