Page 255 of Burn of the Everflame

“Zalaric’s gone?” a muffled voice whimpered through the washroom door.

Eleanor and I let out a matching groan.

“He’s outside,” Luther called out. “He told me to tell you if you’re not there in ten minutes, he’s pouring out every drop of alcohol in the palace and you’ll have nothing to drink all night.”

“Fine with me,” Taran yelled.

Eleanor laughed. “Taran Corbois, passing up a drink?”

“Taran Bellator.” The door cracked open, one sapphire eye peeking through. “I drink to forget, Ellie. I want to remember today.”

My heart swelled. Luther’s hand found its way to mine and squeezed. “Cousin,” he said sternly.

“Lu,” Taran answered. Though I could only see a sliver of his face, it was absent his usual grin. His skin looked greenish and clammy, his brows pinched. “You saw Zal? He’s out there?”

“He is. And I think he would prefer if he did not spend his mating day alone.” Taran’s gaze lowered guiltily, and Luther dipped his chin. “If you stay here much longer, Zalaric might start to think you’ve changed your mind.”

Taran’s throat bobbed. “You really think it will work? The mating magic?”

“Of course it will,” Eleanor gushed. “Zalaric adores you.”

Taran looked at my mother, who nodded, then at me as I offered a supportive smile, but he remained unmoved. He looked again to Luther, awaiting his response. It reminded me so much of Teller, always looking to me for reassurance when the world seemed uncertain. Taran’s physical size and irreverent personality made it easy to forget that, deep down inside, he was a little brother, too—though it was Luther, not Aemonn, who had always been his rock.

“It will work,” Luther said firmly.

The door opened an inch. “Okay.” Another inch. “I’m ready.” He pulled it fully open, though he kept out of sight. “I can do this. It’s fine. Everything’s going to be fine. Once I see him, I’ll . . . oh fuck, I can’t do this.” He let out a panicked sound and reached for the door.

Luther’s hand flicked up, and a talon of shadows shot across the room and sank its claws into the wooden door. Taran yelped and grabbed the handle with both hands, fighting against Luther’s magic to pull it closed.

“Taran,” Luther barked. “You are coming out of that washroom, even if I have to carry you out myself.”

Taran’s strength was no match for Luther’s godhood, and the door flew out of his grip and slammed all the way open.

“I can’t,” Taran said. “Maybe Zal loved me before, but now . . .” He slowly emerged from the washroom. From the neck down, he looked incredible—a stark white brocade suit edged with wide gold cuffs and embroidery on the lapel depicting a dark-hued jaguar chasing a dancing phoenix through the flames. His trousers were neatly pressed, his collar crisp and jacket all the way buttoned. I’d never seen him so formal—even his ever-present scruff had been fully shaved, revealing a strong, chiseled jaw that took his features from handsome to godlike.

But the shocked gasp that flew out of me was not for his elegant attire or cleaned-up look—it was the wild mess of hair atop his head, awkwardly snipped to ten different lengths and sticking out in every possible direction. Behind him, a pair of scissors lay on the counter like a smoking cannon, dark blond curls scattered over the floor.

Eleanor’s hands flew to her mouth too late to stifle her laugh, and Taran sagged. “I’m ruined,” he whined.

Luther pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not again.”

“He’s done this before?” I asked.

“So many times,” Eleanor got out between giggles. “Luther used to confiscate all the scissors in the palace a week before any major events.”

Taran flopped onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Zal always looks perfect, and I’m always a mess. I wanted to be perfect today, too. For him.” His eyes began to gleam. “I hope he does leave me. I don’t deserve him.”

Eleanor’s laughter stopped. “Oh, Taran,” she murmured. “That’s not true at all.”

“It is,” he said. “He’s stylish and beautiful and elegant and he always knows exactly what to say and do. All I’ve ever done is have a royal last name.”

“By the Flames,” my mother huffed, hands on her hips. “No son of mine talks about himself like that. I won’t allow it.” She marched forward and snatched up the scissors, then grabbed Taran’s hand and dragged him to my mirrored vanity. She pointed at the stool. “Sit. Now.”

His eyes widened a bit at the commanding snap in her voice. It was one I knew well, having heard it so many times over the years when she was putting an unruly patient in their place—or, more often, scolding me. Teller and I had always joked that she could be as hard-nosed a commander as our father. It made me wonder if the maternal healer and Guardian leader that I’d been struggling to reconcile were really that different, after all.

She set to work repairing the carnage. “For the love of the gods, Taran, Zalaric does not love you for your hair,” she snapped. “You are as good and worthy a man as he is, and he would be the first to agree.”

Taran said nothing, staring at his hands. Something stirred within me—not my magic, but an old healer’s instinct that had always kicked up when I suspected there was more to a patient’s pain than they were letting on.