“Um.” Aethra leaned forward, intently studying my reflection.
Oh, princess. She’d heeded Percy’s order without question.
No wonder I liked her.
“An assassin in a ratty cloak,” she decided. “But his coatisnice, even if the previous one was better.”
Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, Percy guided her to the other side of the bed and whispered in her ear. She perked up, nodding and glancing back at me, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes. Then, she touched Percy’s shoulder and flew out the door.
“What have you done?” I groaned.
“Enlisted aid,” Percy said, fishing through the bag on the floor. Pulling a sharp knife loose from its scabbard, he leveled it at my hair.
“Hey, hey.” I leaned forward, avoiding the dagger. “Don’t cut—”
“I’m just tidying them. Sit still,” he ordered. “Actually, here. This will help.” Motioning me out of the chair, he spun it around so I’d face the wall instead of the vanity.
Sighing, I sat back down, wincing when I felt him take the blade to my locks. Aethra returned a few minutes later, Whisper following close behind. She squeezed between my chair and the wall, and her hip brushed my arm as she passed.
Forgetting about Percy, my attention snapped to her. She clutched a journal tightly, glancing between the pages and the hint of my tattoo escaping from my rolled-up sleeves.
“Take your shirt off,” she ordered.
“Is this a makeover or a shakedown?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Aethra wanted to throw an orgy,” Percy corrected.
“If I had, I would’ve invited Eleos to watch him squirm.” Flicking her wrist, Aethra reiterated her command.
Laughing, I did as the princess ordered. My eyes lingered on the Penthos tattoo snaking down my left arm, remembering its meaning—and the day I’d gotten it.
Pulling up a stool, Aethra set the journal down on the vanity, and I saw what was scrawled on the pages: tattoo designs. She’d left the book open to the Timora.
Righteous vengeance.
“Do you mind?” She asked, flipping open a case of needles and ink. “I’ve noticed the nobles wear many tattoos, but you don’t.”
“I didn’t live the storied life Seraphim has.”
“Maybe not.” She twirled the needle. “You don’t think you can hold a candle to your mother. So, if you can’t inherit her justice, become her vengeance, instead.”
Aethra didn’t think she knew me—but her words proved she did. Nodding, I gave my permission.
She leaned forward, carefully taking my right hand before pressing the needle into my forearm. Biting my lip, I watched her delicate wrist as she worked, imagining a Duathi tattoo painted down her forearm and curling around her palm.
Dethos. The pattern of interlocking vines and petals worn by married couples. When the pair joined hands, their tattoos flowed into one, signifying their eternal union.
I twisted my free hand, trying not to look at her. Trying not to imagine the matching tattoo painted on me.
I failed spectacularly. Though Aethra focused wholly on her work, my eyes lingered on her gorgeous curls, her honey-brown eyes, the curve of her nose, the pout she wore whenever she studied the page beside her. She leaned away to study the design, and I traced my fingers across her wrist.
Aethra looked up sharply and met my eyes. Turning red, she looked back down and returned to her work.
Sitting there, unable to move, while she was so close . . .
My soul raged against the confines of my body. Desperate to escape and entwine with her.
I tried to look away from her face, and failed. “You wanted one, too,” I said. “See any you like?”
