Page 123 of The False Vow

And stepped over the threshold, back into Fortblanche.

—

Noé’s quarters were empty.

I was standing in the sitting room of his suite, the entrance lying open behind me. Up ahead, the door which led to his bedroom was also ajar. Through it, I could see his bed, the sheets pulled back to expose the bare mattress beneath them. Books littered the floor, interspersed with crumpled sheets of letter paper and cast-off, rumpled clothing; on his nightstand, a silver washbasin stood, a damp cloth draped over its rim.

My heart dropped. Where could he be? A wound like the one Clio had inflicted wouldn’t heal easily—even if he’d received immediate medical attention, Noé should still be bedridden, recovering from his injury. Had Bastian taken him someplace else?

“Better luck chasing after a pack of hounds than hunting her down, if she does not wish to be found!”

My thoughts scattered. A voice broke in from directly outside Noé’s chambers—close, irate, and intensely familiar. I barely had time to position myself near the wall, out of sight from the stair landing, when the door slammed open and my husband appeared.

For a moment, Noé stood frozen in the threshold, one hand gripping the knob, the other hanging, useless, at his side. There was slight bruising along his jawline, likely from his tussle with Eliot; other than that, though, I was shocked to find that he looked the picture of health. His black hair was mussed, his cheeks flushed and lively, as though he’d returned from an evening at the shooting range. A thin sheen of sweat dampened his skin, making his neck glisten.

Our eyes locked. Coming back to himself, Noé swallowed and then—calmly and deliberately—shut the door behind him.

His voice, when he spoke again, was soft. “There you are.”

He said it casually, lowly, as though he’d been expecting me—as if I’d only stepped out for a moment, and he’d been here, patiently anticipating my return. A second passed in stillness; then we were rushing toward each other, colliding roughly together.

His lips were firm. Immediately, his hands found my hips, pulling me toward him, and there was no gentleness in this kiss—no hesitancy or patience or thought. I dug my fingers into the warm linen of his shirt, clutching him nearer as he turned and pressed me against the hard flank of the wall.

It wasn’t until he lowered his mouth to my throat that I remembered Clio’s bullet. I gasped. “Your injury—”

“Healed. Magesilk.” Without pulling his lips from my neck, Noé took my hand and slipped it beneath the collar of his shirt, guiding it to a spot just to the left of his heart. I tensed at the feel of a row of stitches puckering his skin, the thread unexpectedly chilly beneath my fingertips, like a coil of wire. “It works remarkably quickly. See?”

I did see—in fact, I was rather curious to learn more—but he was cupping my chin before I could voice any further questions aloud. My mind, foolish and pliable, emptied; when I came to my senses seconds later, my left hand was still beneath his shirt, my right one flat against his collarbone.

With effort, I lowered them both. “There is much we need to discuss.”

“Naturally.” I drew in a breath as Noé lifted me up, tucking my legs around his waist and backing me more firmly against the wall. His mouth moved to my ear; I could feel the smirk in it as he spoke, curved against my skin. “Where shall we start?”

“I…” My words were gone—he was too close, my senses overwhelmed by him. Pull yourself together, Lovett. Painfully, I forced my mind to clear.

“Put me down.” My command, this time, was firm. Noé obeyed immediately, setting me back on the ground and retreating a step—though even at a more removed distance, his presence was enough to muddy my thoughts. Deliberately averting my eyes from his, I rubbed at the bridge of my nose.

Gradually, my mind settled. Only when I felt I had a stern hold over my emotions did I risk speaking again. “It was completely ludicrous of you to take that bullet for me.”

In emphasis, I shot him a glare. Noé merely chuckled, shifting to lean against the wall beside me. “Our physician told me the same,” he replied evenly. “I knew there was a reason he liked you.”

He winked as he said it. The collar of his shirt was folded back—pushed wide by my hands as we’d kissed, I realized, flushing—the white-gold glint of his magesilk stitches just visible above the top edge of the fabric. So close to his heart. Less than an inch of difference, and Clio’s shot would have killed him where he stood by the library doors. He’d be dead.

Reaching out, I touched the stitches, running my finger along their narrow gold spines. “You absolute fool,” I murmured. “Promise me you’ll never do it again.”

Noé’s eyes softened. “My dear Tamerlane,” he said, grinning down at me. “Were you worried about me?”

I dropped my arm. “It’s not funny,” I hissed, looking up at him. The sight of his injury, the starkness of it, had riled me; I could not stop imagining the moment his body dropped to the ground, his gray eyes closing, blood pooling beneath his wedding suit. Clio Lavoie will pay for what she did. My determination to seek out the other silkwitch increased tenfold. No matter if I went to my grave in the process, I would ensure that hurting my husband became a mistake she dearly regretted. “You cannot leave me, Noé.”

My voice wobbled. At the sound of it, all the mirth faded from Noé’s expression. He gathered me close to him, tucking my head beneath his chin. His skin was cold, blessedly clarifying; giving in to his embrace, I laid my cheek against his shoulder and wrapped my arms around him, breathing in his icy scent, clean and rousing like a midwinter rain.

“I never will, Lovett,” he muttered into my hair. “I never will.”

I held him closer. We remained that way for a minute, his fingers in my hair, my shoulders against the wall, and his arms encircling me, before he pulled away. I’d taken off my caul upon reaching Cyril’s family apartment so that my tresses spilled, loose, down my back as he leaned over me, his elbow braced above my head.

“Lovett.” He spoke my name again, somber this time. “You need to know—Eliot came by yesterday evening. He told my father where you were staying. If the others who fled with you are still there—Manon, Anais—they could be in danger.”

I nodded. “I know. He came to me first.” Anais and Manon had departed Cyril’s estate around the same time as the Owl and I had, though they had gone to seek out Manon’s parents rather than return to Fortblanche with us. Manon felt confident her fathers would provide safe haven to the both of them until they sorted out next steps. Apparently, they’d always liked Anais. “Where is your father now?” I asked.