My skin warms that I wasn’t able to decrypt it on my own.
“It’s not an easy word.”
I purse my lips, because it isn’t exactly a difficult one either.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have it inscribed in Crow, but I worried the jeweler would botch the job.”
Cheeks still prickling, I remind him, “I speak your tongue fluently.” I jerk my hands upward, attempting to clip my present around my neck, but I can’t see what I’m doing and my hair keeps getting in the way.
Konstantin comes up behind me and steals it from my fingers. Instead of snapping it shut, he holds it out, then cups one of my hands.
“Konstantin…” I sigh. “Everyone’s waiting… I’m not giving up, I’m just—I’ll read it later, when we’re not pressured for time.”
“Unfold your middle finger. I want to try something.”
Stubborn man.“Why my middle finger?”
You don’t use that one to bloodcast. Less callused,he explains, guiding it to the engraving. “What letter do you feel?”
“T.” I must speak the correct one, because he guides my finger to the next letter, patiently waiting for my brain to untangle the shape. Swifter than my eyes ever would, I twig the letter. “Why is this easier?”
“Because it reduces visual confusion.”
“So, mysightis the problem?”
“No. It’s just the way your brain processes what you’re looking at. I asked Arin to explain it to me so I could understand it better. She mentioned that it was like someone showing you a painting while hopping. I made Ilya do just that—hold up a small painting and jump in order to truly grasp what you see.”
My heart swells, stretching wide with something too vast to name.
“Three more words to go,Moya Yegmenka.” His lips brush along the shell of my ear. “Ready?”
I nod, and we sketch them together.
My throat tightens when we reach the end.
Till the stars forget to shine, be mine.
I whirl in his arms. “We’re mates. I’m already yours.”
“I know, but that doesn’t mean I’ll ever take your presence at my side or your love for granted.”
I frame his jaw. “May the stars never forget to shine.”
As I kiss him, he finally clips the choker around the pulsating column of my throat before fanning the jeweled strands over my shoulders instead of down my front and back. When he’s done arranging his creation, he carries the tiara off my desk on an enchanted gust and carefully threads it through my coiled hair. And then he steps back, and he looks.
Justlooks.
As though it were the first time…the last time…and every time in between.
“I must’ve been a fucking saint in my past life,” he says.
“I didn’t know you believed in past lives. You’re just full of surprises.”
Banging rattles my door. My heart skips over several beats, for there are few sounds I dread more than loud knocking.
“It’s me.” Dádhi’s gruff voice cradles my harried organ, gently setting it back on its perch. “The man who made you.”
I grin.
