Page 170 of Burn of the Everflame

I would have told them their family’s wealth had come at those people’s expense, made possible by preferential laws enforced by a government run by and for their kind that spent exponentially more time preserving its power than protecting its people—if I thought they’d hear a word of it.

Gilded hearts were not easily changed.

I made it to my chambers and tore off my dirty leathers, then quickly washed the dirt and sticky ale from my skin. As I stood in front of my wardrobe, I surprised even myself when I reached for a body-hugging gown in a bright vermillion knit. Lately, I’d been finding excuses to show off the curves I’d worked so hard to gain back. I couldn’t even blame it on Luther—ever since our night in the woods, keeping him from tearing off my clothes and revealing my mark had become a daily battle. The more of my body I put on display, the more ardently he fought.

The truth was, I wanted to look beautiful. Not for him, but for me. His reverent love was lethal against my self-doubt, as were the support of my friends and my small but cherished triumphs as Queen. I was finally growing comfortable in my own skin. I didn’t need to choose between warrior or healer or Crown, mortal or Descended, feminine or strong. I was all of them at once, and I was better for it.

The door opened, and the flutter of the bond told me who it was. A smile tugged at my lips.

“Help me with these laces?” I asked, holding the dress to my chest and glancing at him over my bare shoulder.

Luther’s nostrils flared, his heated gaze traveling over my naked back as he came up behind me. “Only if you’re taking it off.”

“And miss all the fun outside?”

His eyes snapped back up at the sarcasm in my tone. “If you don’t feel like celebrating with the others, I can think of a few alternatives.” His knuckles grazed up my spine. “One in particular.”

I stretched up to steal a kiss, and he seized his chance. His fingers tangled in my hair to hold me at his will as his tongue moved in deep, possessive strokes. His other hand skimmed over my ribs, kneading his thumb against my breast.

I whimpered softly. “Luther.”

“You can drop that dress now.”

“Luther.”

A rumble rolled from his chest. “I love hearing you say my name.” He nipped at my jaw. “I love it more when you scream it.”

“I need to join the others. I’m—” I gasped as his fingers tightened and a thrilling tingle coursed across my scalp. “I’m their Queen.”

“Exactly. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Your Majesty.”

With a pathetic whine, I pressed a hand to his chest and eased him away. “You know better than anyone how not true that is, Your Highness.” His jaw ticked. I flashed a sweet smile and gave him my back. “Laces, please.”

He let out a frustrated grunt that was, frankly, adorable, then gave in and laced up the dress. He sank onto my bed as I finished pinning up my hair and dabbing rouge on my lips. Even though I was the furthest thing from healed and still getting reacquainted with happy, painting my body in colors and draping it in pretty things made me feel, for a night, like I was. Perhaps I was simply putting diamonds on ash, but it sparkled all the same.

“What’s this?” Luther asked, picking up a journal on my nightstand.

I glanced at it, and my stomach clenched. “My mother’s notes on treating godstone wounds.”

“Your blood can heal godstone. Why do you need this?”

“I don’t anymore. It was from . . . before.”

He stilled, realizing my meaning. His eyes lifted, and I felt the strain of his heart over the bond as it ached with mine, remembering how close we’d come to saying goodbye right in the spot he now sat.

He rose and flipped through the journal’s pages as he strolled around the room, occasionally passing close enough that our arms would brush, as if he couldn’t bear more than a few seconds of being apart.

He stopped on a page. “Auralie wrote your name.”

I stared over his shoulder at a note scribbled in my mother’s handwriting in the margins:

Diem—Coeurîle

godstone=death

life=?

Luther and I exchanged a glance, wearing matching looks of confusion. I had seen the note before, but with my mother trapped in a Fortos prison, I’d had no way to ask her what it meant. Now, she was a few minutes’ walk away—not that that had brought us any closer.