Page 125 of The False Vow

Holding my stare, he dipped his mouth to mine again. Fire seared me; I parted my lips as he deepened the kiss, allowing him nearer. This time, his movements were less graceful—his thumbs pressed down on my hip bones, his grip urgent, his tongue skimming over my teeth.

My pulse sped as he drew me still closer. The darkness melted, everything fading beneath his touch.

And for a single night, I was purely happy.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Morning came too quickly.

I woke to the sound of rain beating steadily against the turret roof. Thunder rumbled low in the distance; past Noé’s bedroom windows, the sea was gray and flat, sunk back on its haunches. The horizon was dark, as yet unbroken by dawn—a storm was rolling in.

Next to me, Noé stirred. I turned to look at him as he shifted on the pillows, angling his body toward me. We’d passed most of the night awake in this very bed, planning at first—then, once we’d caught one another up on all we’d missed while apart, simply talking.

He smiled as he took me in. It faded when he registered my expression—my features resolute, my knees pulled up to my chest, and my arms looped around them, clutching myself close. “Leaving already?”

Reaching down, I twined my fingers with his. “I’ll be back soon.”

He did not protest, only squeezed my hand once and pulled me toward him. Acquiescing, I slipped back beneath the sheets; he gathered me close, kissing my shoulder, then my jaw.

His fingers traced my ear, his voice rough with sleep. “Be careful, hmm?”

A flare of heat lit my low belly at his touch, but I pushed it aside, nodding. Outside, another peal of thunder broke through the rainy haze; using the sound as an excuse, I wriggled away from him, swinging my feet over the side of the bed to the floor.

The air was cold—chilly with the promise of the storm. Shivering, I dressed quickly in the same frock I’d worn the prior night, before crossing to the sitting-room entrance.

“Lovett.”

I turned. Noé had propped himself up against the headboard, watching me with a pensive expression. For a moment after I sighted him, I wondered whether he would call me back to his side. Perhaps now that we were wed, he would prefer to keep me close, ensure the only chaos I doled out was done at his discretion.

Instead, he only winked. “Go get her, Tamerlane.”

I breathed a laugh. Shaking my head, I faced back toward the door, my Wit curling tight in anticipation as I took the knob firmly in hand. Twisted it.

In front of me, the open doorway yawned. And once more, I stepped through.

—

The bedroom where Clio was staying was dark.

I could hear the rain as I crossed over the threshold, whispering softly beyond the curtains, but I could not see it. I was in a square chamber, cloaked in blackness; ahead of me, various pieces of furniture stood, providing texture to the gloom. There wasn’t much: I made out a writing desk and chair against one wall, a washstand in the corner.

A bed—and a girl slumbering within it.

Silently, I pulled the door closed behind me. It had taken Marie-Louise the better part of our journey to pinpoint Clio’s whereabouts. From my conversation with Eliot, I knew the two were still engaged, and that the other silkwitch had gotten away with her wounding of my husband. Still, part of me assumed that Eliot would have taken at least some distance from her after what she’d done.

I was wrong. Instead, the Owl had found Clio in the Lear family’s townhome, only a bedroom away from Eliot’s own.

I drew nearer. Something glinted as I approached Clio’s bedside: a knife. She’d placed it beneath her pillow, the blade poking out, lying against the mattress like a flat silver tongue. Her hand lay not far from it—if I were to guess, I’d have bet she’d fallen asleep gripping it, only for her fingers to unclench while she slumbered.

It appeared she was expecting me.

Carefully, I climbed onto the mattress, my hand finding the knife’s hilt and teasing it out from under the pillow. By the time her eyes blinked open, I already had the blade to her throat.

I slapped my other hand over her mouth before she could scream. Her gaze narrowed on me, crouched over her with her torso clamped between my legs, then darted sideways to a bellpull dangling above her nightstand. Pinned beneath her bedcovers, I felt her arm tense.

“Your door will not open unless I command it to.” I spoke softly, stilling her before she could move. “If you summon Eliot or his father, they won’t be able to reach you—only pound on your walls and distract me. And if they distract me, my hand might slip.”

I jerked the knife in demonstration. Her eyes bored into mine, hatred radiating from them; even so, a second later, she relaxed her arm.