“You wish for him to live?” Nyatrix asks me, one eyebrow raised. If she’s disappointed or angry, she doesn’t show it. Her tone stays level. She is simply asking me what I want.
I swallow, feeling like sand has coated my throat. “Yes. Please.”
She watches me for a long moment. My gaze strays to Renault. His chest heaves beneath his breastplate, and his eyes are wild, like a pig before the butcher’s slaughter.
“As you wish,” the Lupa Nox says, dipping into that rough register that ruins me. My shoulders unpin from my ears as she removes the sword from his neck. But then, in a movement so fast I cannot track it, Nyatrix flips the grip of the blade in her palm. She bashes Renault’s temple with the butt of the hilt before I can process what’s happening, and he drops like a stone to the marble floor.
I cling to the side of the Saintess’s statue, my breath ragged and eyes wide as I stare out into the chamber. Moments ago, six fully knighted men of the Host threatened a single Fatum. Now there is nothing left but their corpses and still-shining armor.
With my heart in my throat, I look up from Renault’s body to find the Lupa Nox stalking toward me. Her sword is sheathed, her wings gone.
“Don’t fret—he’s alive,” she says, her steps carrying her to me in mere moments. “I thought he would be less annoying unconscious.”
All I can do is gape at her, one hand on my cane and the other gripping the Saintess’s plinth, barely enough to keep me on my feet. For so many anni, I’ve watched everyone treat Noble Houses with endless deference—and families of the Twelve with near-worship. Of course a knight of the Sepulchyre wouldn’t—I understand that. And yet something like awe rises from deep within my marrow at the sight of a woman being so much stronger, faster, andbetterthan the kinds of people I was taught to think were inherently my superiors.
“Ophelia,” Nyatrix says, leaning toward me. I watch one of her hands rise, like she means to touch me before she thinks better of it. “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” I reply, my voice thin and reedy.
She studies me, and I find only a little of that feral gleam in her gaze. “Well, it’s certainly been an exciting day,” she remarks, her mouth curving with amusement. “Why don’t we clean up and get something to eat?”
She offers me her hand, like I am a lady at a feast and she is a dashing young knight. I meet her gaze and find myself tumbling into the deep, ebony pools of her eyes. My body grinds to a halt, desire lashing at me, a furious throbbing appearing between my legs. But then Nyatrix frowns and turns away, the moment disappearing like dew on a hot day.
“One moment,” she says, curt now. “I need to tie up your betrothed.”
“What if heseesus?” I hiss, desperation clawing at my throat. I don’t know how to find the words to make her understand without turning my face red as garnet. I wrap my arms around myself, hoping I might disappear into the high stone bench I’m seated upon.
Nyatrix pauses, sinking back on her haunches. She rests her wrists on her knees and glances up at me, eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you engaged?” she asks. “And I presumed it was a love match, as you told me in Lumendei? Why else would you save him?”
The steam of the abandoned baths makes it even harder to breathe. I clutch at the remaining fabric of my skirts and stare down at the mosaic floors, which glimmer in the hearth-light like fish scales. “More friendship than anything else,” I explain to Nyatrix, forcing myself to look up.
She’s still crouched beside Renault, where he’s slumped against a wall, chin tucked into his chest, eyes closed. Despite being a hair’s breadth from a strange man, she’s already stripped down to just her breast band and drawers.
“Oh,” she says, sounding the word out, her lips pursed. “So you . . . have not explored each other’s bodies? And it would be a problem if he sees you unclothed in the baths nowbecause. . . ?” One of her elegant hands turns in the air, as if she’s trying to pull a reason out of the steam.
I supply her with one, the words tumbling out of me, embarrassment clutching at my throat. “Because we’re not yet married!” I near-shout, my words echoing loudly on the stone walls. I shrink back, rounding my shoulders. “We’re not meant to see each other’s bodies in that way until we’re married. Until the Lord has presided over our union.”
Silence cloaks the abandoned baths. I brace myself for Nyatrix to laugh at me, to mock my concerns. Instead, a tearing sound draws my attention. My head snaps up to find the Lupa Nox ripping the bottom of Renault’s tunic. I watch in confusion, my mouth half-open. We removed his armor together—at my request, so he wouldn’t overheat in the bathing chambers—but of course left the rest of his clothing on.
“There,” she says, beaming at me over her shoulder. I peer through the curls of steam to find she’s tied the strip of cloth taken from his clothing around his eyes. “Now he’s blindfolded and won’t see a thing.”
Nyatrix stands in a lithe movement. Then she saunters over to me, yet again barefoot and shirtless, forcing me to watch the way the muscles of her abdomen contract with each step, the way the light from the enormous hearth on the far wall drags red-gold fingers across her sharp features. My pulse slips down into my belly, a forbidden heat gathering within me.
“Which means,” the knight says as she comes to stand before me, so close her hips brush my knees, “we can dowhateverwe want.”
What I want is to taste her blackberry mouth, to bury my face in the crook of her neck, to become drunk on the asphodel scent of her skin, to feel her hands roam my body in the ways I was taught only a man’s might one day, if I was a very good girl and worthy of being someone’s wife.
I want this apocalypse of a woman to ruin me.
“I want,” I begin, forcing the words out of my hungry mouth, “for you to . . .”
The Lupa Nox draws closer, her hips now gently straining against my knees, her head cocked in that dangerous way. Her lips part, and I almost tumble into oblivion.
“...explain to me what happened to this city. Why is it abandoned?” I cannot yet find it in my heart to call this place “Old Lumendei,” as she does.
Nyatrix wilts like a night-blooming bud at sunrise. The delicious pressure against my knees subsides, and she steps back, glancing away for a moment. “It’s a long story,” she finally says, her voice small in the enormous chamber. “There are proper historians in Liminalia who could explain it better.”
“I would like for you to tell me,” I request nervously.
