Dimitri’s burns look better this morning. Still raw, still angry, but the blackened edges have receded, the cracks in his skin knitting together with a speed that no human body could manage. The salve helped, Knox can tell, and the knowledge that Dimitri used it after Knox went to bed, alone in the dark, with no one watching, does something to Knox’s chest that he doesn’t examine.
“I haven’t survived for all these years,” Dimitri says, “to waltz into a holy cathedral and present myself to Templars of the Order on a silver fucking platter.”
“Even if we find our witch, and we will find him, I can guarantee he doesn’t know how to reverse the spell. He didn’t even know what he was casting. We need someone who understands the mechanics of what was done to us, and Fiora has access to texts that don’t exist anywhere else.”
“Texts kept inside a building full of people who want to kill me.”
“I’ll be with you the entire time.”
“Oh, well, that changes everything. I feel so safe.”
Knox sets his jaw. Patience. Years and years of patience. “Dimitri.”
The demon’s name feels different this morning. Not strange, exactly, but weighted in a way it wasn’t before, and when Knox says it Dimitri’s red eyes flicker and something warm passes through the bond before it’s buried.
“If you have a better idea,” Knox says, “I’m listening.”
Dimitri doesn’t have a better idea. They both know it. The silence stretches, and Knox lets it, because he’s learned in the past twenty-four hours that pushing Dimitri only makes him dig in harder.
“Fine,” Dimitri says eventually. He sets the mug down on the counter with a click. “Fine. But if a single one of your holy brothers so much as looks at me wrong, I’m leveling the building.”
“Noted.”
***
The Cathedral of the Holy Order sits in the heart of Haven, white stone raised against the sky.
Knox has walked through its doors hundreds of times. He’s prayed in its nave, trained in its yards, bled in its infirmary. It’s been his anchor for years, the one place where he knows exactly who he is and what he’s for. But today, walking up the broad stone steps with a demon at his side, the familiar weight of the place feels different. Heavier. As though the building itself knows something is wrong.
“Stay close to me,” Knox says as they approach the entrance. “Don’t speak unless spoken to. If anyone asks, you’re a subdued hostile that I’m bringing in for processing.”
Dimitri stops walking. He stares at Knox. Then he throws his head back and laughs.
It’s a real laugh. Loud and sharp and delighted, the kind that shows all of his teeth and crinkles the corners of his red eyes, and several passing civilians startle and give them a wide berth. Knox feels the laughter through the bond, bright and effervescent and dangerously infectious, and he has to clamp down hard on the corners of his own mouth to keep them from doing something inadvisable.
“Subdued,” Dimitri repeats, wiping his eye with the back of one burned hand. “You subdued me. You, five-foot-eight, a hundred and fifty pounds, armed with a glorified stick, subdued me.”
“It’s a mace.”
“You couldn’t subdue a house cat.”
“I’m more than capable,” Knox says stiffly, “of handling you.”
Dimitri moves so fast that Knox doesn’t see it coming.
One moment they’re standing on the cathedral steps, six feet apart. The next, Dimitri’s hand is on Knox’s jaw, thumb on one side, fingers on the other, tilting his face up with a grip that is firm and precise and makes Knox’s entire body go rigid. Dimitrileans down until their faces are inches apart, until Knox can see the individual flecks of darker red in those ember irises, until the bond between them is vibrating at a frequency that makes Knox’s teeth ache.
“Exactly how much of me,” Dimitri murmurs, “do you think you could take?”
Knox’s breath catches. His pulse slams against the inside of his wrist. His face is burning, and he can feel the heat of it, knows it’s visible, knows Dimitri can see every shade of the flush climbing his neck, and his body has gone absolutely still in the way that prey goes still, which is mortifying because Knox is not prey, Knox has never been prey, Knox has killed things that would make Dimitri—
Dimitri laughs again. Lower this time, darker, a private sound meant for the two inches of air between them. He releases Knox’s jaw with a slow deliberate drag of his fingers and steps back, looking enormously pleased with himself.
“After you, Templar,” he says, and gestures toward the cathedral doors.
Knox turns on his heel and walks inside before his face can get any redder.
***
