It feels more than a little silly and frivolous, but I do let her dressme. And I revel in our shared smiles as the noble ladies glare at me and Alaric.
Days pass, and life on the mountain develops into a routine of sorts. Mornings are spent in the queen’s salon, where Alaric and I dare the courtiers and councilors to disparage us. In the afternoons, I work in the gardening beds, visit Cloudia, or watch the stone-throwing contests with Elodie. Evenings are spent cultivating goblin’s gold in the mines or tangled in Alaric’s arms, reveling in the rightness of it all. This partnership that doesn’t make sense and shouldn’t work but somehow does.
I still keep an eye out for gemstones the color of blood, flesh, and bone, but I never find a trace—not among Queen Tessa’s personal jewels or in the throne room. I even search unlikely places like the kitchens and library.
But nothing.
We do, however, come across a few hidden memories. Alaric and Delphine—and even Elodie, on occasion—pluck a buzzing brooch or a humming bracelet from an unsuspecting courtier, and we howl with laughter when Alaric brings the memory to life, exposing the courtiers’ darkest desires and most scandalous secrets.
Alaric tells Soren about the goblin’s gold I’m cultivating in the mines, hoping it will get his father off my back and maybe even ease his obsession with bagrava altogether. If Soren sees there are other ways I can contribute to Vanzador, perhaps he won’t focus so intently on the one crop my people desperately need to survive. We hope it might encourage him to open up to Alaric about why they need so much bagrava in the first place.
Days pass without hearing from Rowenna. Then weeks. And even though I miss my sister as a person, I don’t miss the version of her I conjured in her absence. I can admit that’s all her voice ever was now—a coping mechanism. A crutch. I was so used to following her lead, I was terrified to trust my own instincts and make my own decisions.
But not anymore.
Against all odds, I’ve found happiness on this mountain—with real friends and a purpose for my magic. With hope for Tashir and a love I never dreamed possible. I’m so happy, sometimes I almost forget Rowenna was murdered here. I even allow myself to entertain the idea that she truly did fall. After all this time, that feels more likely than a killer lurking in the shadows.
“I have a surprise for you,” I whisper in Alaric’s ear during dinner in the great hall several weeks later.
He scowls at me warily, but his eyes gleam with mischief—so warm and confident. So opposite the boy I married on the Tomb Flats.
“What sort of surprise?” he asks.
“The sort I can only show you in the privacy of my chambers.”
His fork clatters against his plate, and I cackle wickedly.
“Does that mean you’re finished eating?” I ask, batting my eyes.
Alaric pushes back from the table, grabs my hand, and practically drags me out of the banquet hall, heedless of the courtiers’ giggles and Queen Tessa’s knowing smile.
“I hope you’re on your way to harvest more bagrava!” Soren calls after us with a wink, which elicits even more laughter from the dinner guests.
For once in my life, though, the pull of the bagrava isn’t as strong as another force, pulsing in my chest and steadily working its way lower.
We’re kissing before we’re even down the hall, and Alaric carries me, legs wrapped around his waist, all the way to my chambers. We crash into the door, laughing when it slams open, and I hungrily unfasten the chains across his chest, shucking his jacket to the floor as he places me on the bed.
When he tries to lay me back, though, I hold a hand against his chest and wriggle out from beneath him. “Be patient, or you’ll ruin the surprise.”
He growls with frustration, the hunger in his eyes tantalizing as Islowly slide the lacy sleeve off my right shoulder, then my left.
I’m wearing another gown Elodie selected—emerald green with a low square neckline and a split skirt that cuts clear to the tops of my thighs. It’s provocative and revealing, but tame compared to the tiny strips of fabric underneath.
Alaric’s breath catches as I let the gown slip farther down my torso, and I feel my cheeks flame. I have never let anyone see me so bare and vulnerable. I want to clutch the dress against my chest or make a joke to ease the tension pulsing between us, but I force myself to hold Alaric’s gaze as I take the dress lower and lower still, until I’m standing before him in nothing but bejeweled strips of velvet and lace—the traditional costume Vanzadorian brides wear on their wedding night.
“What do you think of your surprise?” I whisper. “I know I’m not technically Vanzadorian, but Elodie assured me this was—”
“Perfect,” Alaric says, his eyes roving up and down my body.
I feel like I’m burning from the inside out, hotter than the fires that scorched Tashir, and the only thing that will douse the flames is his lips on my lips. His skin on my skin.
My need must be written all over my face, because he finally removes the bothersome gloves he always wears and cups my chin in his bare hands. His fingers are warm and deliciously smooth as they glide down my throat and into my hair. His mouth is hot and insistent as it covers mine.
We fall to the bed in a tangle of arms, legs, lips, and sheets. Two broken people finding wholeness in the pieces of the other. Coming together to form an image like stained glass—far more beautiful pieced back together than if the glass had remained a solid pane.
We taste and touch, shiver and sigh, neither pausing to doubt or question. Just feeling. Moving. Savoring. Until we break apart, sweaty, gasping, and breathless, somehow lying on the floor.
“Who could have guessed that growing bagrava isn’t your greatesttalent?” Alaric murmurs into my hair.
