“A couple of them do, for them or their heirs. My father won’t have any of it, though.” Well, it seems Astrid has found one thing she can agree with the king on. “The main point of contention more recently has been the conscription and the rise in rebel sympathizers. There are a few of us who don’t agree with the current regime’s methods.”
“Us,” not “them.” He doesn’t agree with the practice, because who in their right mind could? She leans her head back against his chest, wondering what the Hel she’s doing and not caring at the same time, then lays her arms on his. Electricity spreads through her as he dips his mouth to her neck, and she stills as the featherlight press of his lips finds her pulse point.Breathe, she reminds herself.Just breathe.
“I heard the rebel escaped,” she says, surprised she can actually speak. He hums in response, the sound reverberating against her skin.
“Why?” she whispers. She needs to hear it from him. Needs him to confirm what she already knows. “Why did you free him?”
He stops, lips lingering against her throat, then after a beat, he disentangles himself from her and she wants to yell in protest. Slowly, he turns her to face him, a regretful slope to his mouth.
“I freed him because it was the right thing to do. If I hadn’t, he would have been executed, all because he was trying to help people being taken against their will for some dubious reason even I can’t fathom. But, Astrid”—he cups her cheek—“no one can know this, so I’m asking you to keep this secret for me.”
Because surely it would mean the loss of his title if the king found out Zryan had aided a rebel escape.
She places her hand over his. “Why are you even telling me this? You don’t know me, don’t know if you can trust me.”
He lowers his face to hers, so they’re almost nose to nose. “I know you well enough, Astrid. I know you would have died for your country, whether it was for the sake of one life or a million. I know you put yourself in danger to save me, when you had nothing to gain. I know you’ve not only helped Skylar but been kind to her, despite how afraid you must be. I know you.” He taps a finger above her left breast, over her heart. “And I know you’re better than the best of us.” A blush creeps along her nose, her cheeks. The shadow of his touch on her chest still lingers. He clears his throat, drawing back. “I’m also hoping that, if it comes to it and I find myself king of Vatra and you queen of Arturea, we will be better than our ancestors.” He winks. “Diplomacy over duels.”
Astrid almost snorts at that. It’s not that she wouldn’t want improved relations between the two continents, but she doesn’t expect to survive that long. And even if she did, they’d have to figure out how to break the cursed Covenant—which is impossible. Even the document itself is indestructible.
“I won’t say a word,” she says. “I swear it.” If she has to keep the fact that Zryan is an infinitely better man than his father a secret, then so be it.
He nods at her, absently touching the scar that cuts through thecenter of his torso, and she wonders once again what happened. She can’t help herself as she reaches for him, tracing her fingertips over his hand, then down the length of the thick white scar. His body goes taut at her touch.
“Who hurt you?” she whispers.
He clasps her fingers and holds them against his stomach. “That is a story for another time.” A flash of something crosses his face and she frowns. Grief. Regret.
“That bad?”
He shakes his head. “Not now.” He pulls her hand away, clutching her fingers for a heartbeat before releasing them. “I want you to enjoy tonight. Enjoy here.”
She can’t help the sting of rejection until she notices the way he’s holding himself. As though he’s straining against invisible chains. She doesn’t think she can show the same restraint. And when else might she get this chance? She’s probably going to die in two weeks anyway, so what does she have to lose? She hesitates, then lifts her hand and brushes it along the scar again, thinking about why a man like Zryan would have a scar like that, why he wouldn’t want to tell her what caused it.
“It was an assassination attempt, wasn’t it. The one that killed the person important to you.” His set jaw tells her everything. “A witch did this.” She strokes along his abs, marveling at how solid he is, yet how soft, even while she dreads what he might say.
“It was a witch,” he concedes. “The blow should have killed me. The Curers said it was a miracle I survived.” A grim smile. “She’s dead. The first person I ever killed.”
Astrid’s hands tremble slightly, because she knows what that means: her mother sent someone to kill him. “I’m so sorry, Zryan—”
“Don’t, don’t do that. We’re not to blame for the decisions of our parents. Or our ancestors. If we were, I’d have a lot more apologizing to do to you. So let’s stop this, please.” She drops her hand, but he takes her fingers and pulls them back to his body, moving closer to her. “Well, maybe don’t stop that.”
She happily obliges, running her fingers along his chest, following the scar down to his navel and over the light smattering of hair thatdisappears below his waistband. He shivers and it brings a thrill of satisfaction to Astrid, the way he responds to her touch, the effect she has on him. And he’s right: she isn’t to blame for what her mother did, and he’s not responsible for his father’s actions, or inactions, either. She should ask him about the Heart, ask him if there’s something wrong with it, but she’s in thrall to Zryan, to his body, and the moonflower is making her a slave to her senses.
“If you keep touching me like that,” he murmurs, closing his eyes, “I might do something you regret.”
“Something worse than treason?”
He lets out a breathy laugh, tension easing from him. He opens his eyes, drinking her in. “Is it treason to want to save my people? To right the wrongs of my family?” He strokes her cheek, smoothing the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “Is it treason for me to want you this fucking badly? Because I know I shouldn’t want you, but, Astrid, when it comes to you, I find myself thinking things…” He pauses, shakes his head. “Let’s just say lately I’ve been questioning my priorities.”
If she wasn’t surrounded by winter, she might just burn alive.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For being honest with me.”
He strokes a knuckle along the edge of her mask, reaches around to untie it, and lets it drop to the ground. “I want you to know the real me.”
She feels exposed without the mask, vulnerable, but he’s made himself vulnerable, too. She places a palm over his heart, feeling the reassuring rhythm of it.
“I like the real you,” she says, and she swears his heartbeat stumbles. “I like all of you, even those parts that scare me. Sometimes”—she lifts her eyes to his—“especially those parts.”
