He scoffs and looks away. "That's not happening."
"She said she'll give me the scepter herself."
The lights flicker. His hands flex on the chair's arms. "She said that?"
"Her exact words: 'Tell Malachi to bring you home, and I will give you the scepter myself.'"
His eyes narrow. "What does she want in exchange?"
"Nothing." I shrug, though nothing about this feels casual. "She said she already has my soul."
His jaw tics. He looks away. I don't need the bond to tell me he's furious. Don't need my empathy. Don't need the lights, which are flickering differently now. As if they're afraid to stay lit too long. As if they might catch his ire.
"Mal."
He clenches his fists in his lap. Closes his eyes. "I'm not taking you to her."
The words are soft. Too soft.
I hug my knees tighter. But I can't look away from his face. I've seen him under flickering lights before. Seen the hard lines of his jaw, the menacing energy that surrounds him when he's upset.
This isn't that. This is more. If I weren't watching so closely, I might miss it. If I hadn't memorized every line of his face, I wouldn't notice.
But I am. And I have.
Which is why it's impossible to miss the thin lines forming beneath his eyes. Not silver, like the Sages get when their eyes flash. These lines are gold. Or copper. It's hard to tell against his skin.
Then his eyes open.
I thought the Sages were terrifying when their eyes flashed silver. They're nothing compared to this. His beautiful golden-brown eyes, the color of memory stones and my favorite sunrise, flash bronze.
Bronze.
And everything inside me goes still.
Chapter Thirty
"Mal." My voice is barely a whisper. "What's happening to you?"
"I'm not taking you to her,” he says, his voice a low growl.
I would never have dared touch the Sages when their eyes flashed silver. But with him, I can't stop myself. My heart pounds. My hands shake. I move to the edge of the bed and lift my palms to his face.
He closes his eyes. Releases a soft sigh as my fingers find his cheeks.
"Does that feel good?"
He huffs a laugh. "What a question."
"Does it?"
"Everything you do feels good." His voice is low. Gravelly. It makes my stomach clench.
"The elixir I used on your wounds has menthol. That's different."
His eyes open. No longer bronze, but the possessive heat blazing in them makes my pulse flutter as wildly as the lights.
"It has nothing to do with the menthol." He holds my gaze. "It's you. Everything you do. Everything you are."
