Nik woke from the nightmare in a cold sweat.
It had unfurled as it always did, first with fire devouring flesh and bone, then screams begging for salvation. Hands burst from the wreckage, bloody fingertips latching on to the hem of his Arts Humains coat, pulling him down in an effort to claw their way upward.
Except in tonight’s dream, he saw them—their faces.
Muck and blood dribbled down Corinne Rousseau’s chin while her gray, empty eyes begged for help because her slashed throat made no noise. He should’ve wanted to kick her back into the grave, but he’d reached down to help her, and the moment her cold hand touched his, he realized why he’d done it.
It was Elara weeping crimson rivulets from the line across her neck. Elara with her warm eyes and freckled cheeks.
Nik wiped the sweat from his face.
No matter what had happened last night, she didn’t deservethat. He understood her marrow-deep hunger to break away from the past and become something entirely new.
But Elara’s past was too big of a blemish. Lafontaine would never trust her unless she turned on the rebels entirely, and Nik had no idea what stance she’d taken on the issue. A rebel wasn’t interested in escape. They wanted change. He had to keep her under control.
Which meant bringing her closer to him.
Chantal had told him to be transparent. Blai would tell him to ratchet up the charm.
Both were abysmal ideas.
With sleep far beyond his reach, he tugged on his trousers and crept down the hallway toward the kitchen. It was his usual routine to sneak scraps from the pantry after everyone else had gone to bed. The idle chatter and awkward silences of eating a meal with someone made his skin crawl. It was much better to enjoy his food in silence.
Not tonight.
Elara was busy furiously whisking ingredients in a bowl. She was dressed in a pale robe, her dark hair freshly washed, making parts of the material translucent with moisture. Rather than look away, Nik allowed himself this concealed moment to study her—the version she hid from everyone else.
Elara was life incarnate. Freedom guided her hips to twirl in circles, and joy peeled her petal-soft lips upward as she whisked from memory. Her bare feet slipped across the tiles, daring to point as if in a ballet, and so help him, she began to hum.
To her, this was the most natural thing in the world, but Nik knew better.
She’d worked her whole life for this moment. Honed skills for years in order to create some of the most powerful dishes in the city. Elara was a girl with no proper tutelage, no true mentor, and yet…
She made it look so damn easy.
Jealousy burned in his core. What he wouldn’t give to be her. To surrender himself, body and soul, to an artistry. Even as a boy, he’d craved to do as his mother had with seed and soil—to create something the world had never seen before. Sometimes, like last night, he allowed himself to dream of another life. A life where the charcoal bit felt more natural in his palm than a scalpel, where a blank canvas terrified him less than a corpse.
Nik studied Elara in the hope he might find some truth to set him onthe right path. Instead, she swept a dollop of batter into her mouth and heaved a dreamy sigh.
Envy gave way to somethingmuchmore dangerous as he watched her savor the taste, returning to the bowl for another morsel. Nik found himself leaning forward.
Pride. Satisfaction entire.
What would it feel like to earn that from her?
What the hell was he thinking? He wasn’t interested inher. He scoffed.
Elara jumped. “Sorry, I just… Oh.”
Shit.
Her eyes slammed to the ground, an uncommon blush burning her cheeks. Did he have something on his—
He’d forgotten his nightshirt.
He had two options: retreat like a coward or act like he owned the place, which he did.
Nik tipped his chin upward and strode over to the kettle.
