Page 25 of The False Vow

Toward me. All of his emotion was because of me. My choices, my mistakes.

“It is just a facade,” I whispered. “Temporary, until we can achieve our goal.”

Eliot shook his head. “Is it? And if the facade continues to the end of the aisle? If your wedding day comes and Bastian still lives, will you keep on acting then?”

I said nothing. In my mind, my argument with Noé in the turret room echoed.

And if that takes decades of my own?

Then we will wait for decades.

“Tamerlane.” I stiffened at the feel of Noé’s hand on my shoulder. When had he approached? The thought of him listening in on Eliot’s and my conversation, overhearing his friend’s criticisms, withered me. “I think it’s time to go.”

Eliot seethed. “Do not interfere in this, Noé.”

“Do not berate my fiancée, Eliot, and you may speak to her as long as you wish.” The heat in Noé’s voice surprised me. He was typically so placid, so removed—but now his fingers were tensed, digging into my flesh. At his response, Eliot scoffed.

“She is not your anything.”

“Really?” Noé drew a step closer. “As you said, it is my ring. I think she wears it rather well.”

“Stop this.” Pushing his hand from my shoulder, I turned and faced my fiancé. The couple from the willow tree had vanished, likely headed to rejoin the party—thank the Sisters. I could not imagine they’d have overlooked this display. “Leave us be.”

Our eyes locked. I was unnerved when, rather than the mocking sarcasm I expected to find in Noé’s, I was met with only an intent thoughtfulness—as though he were carefully considering not only my words but also the meaning behind them. In reaction, I smoothed my expression, guarding my emotions from his view.

His brow furrowed. A second later, his standard chilliness returned, sweeping the softness away. “Fine,” he spat. Then to Eliot: “I’ll be waiting.”

He slunk back in the direction of the statue where he’d been perched earlier. As he left, I shifted toward Eliot, reaching to take him by the wrist. “Eliot—”

He interrupted before I could get any further. “Promise me you’ll never love him.”

I dropped his hand. Eliot’s tone was firm, his entire body angled toward mine. When I glanced up at him, startled, he swallowed. “Swear it, Lovett.”

The desperation in his voice—the urgency, as if he were frightened that at any second, I would slip through his fingers and be gone—made me feel dirty. Still, I did as he said. “I swear.”

His features crumpled. Drawing me near to him, he folded his arms around me, tucking my head beneath his chin. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

The warmth of him made my eyes prickle. “It’s all right,” I murmured softly. Leaning away, I looked up at him, laying a palm against his chest. “We don’t need Lucie to bring down the Weavers, Eliot. We will make a new plan, the two of us. That is how we did it the first time.”

I thought it was the proper thing to say, but Eliot’s mouth twitched as though I’d struck him. “The first time ended with me standing alone.”

He released me before I could fashion a reply.

“Best not keep your fiancé waiting,” Eliot said. There was still an acrimonious underbite to his words, though I could tell he was attempting to suppress it. “I’ll write you once I’ve seen whether I can reason with Lucie.”

Gently, he caught up my hand, brushing his lips over the underside of my wrist. “Good night, Lovett.”

With that, he departed. I curled my fingers toward the heel of my palm, as though I could hold the feel of his mouth there, preserve it like a bit of dried sage hung over a mantel.

It had little effect. The sensation of him was already fading by the time he strode away.

—

I dreaded the ride home.

The party had swelled further while we’d been in the garden, distending until there was not a crevice of the townhome which was not occupied by the frothy mass of a well-dressed body. Still, I would have rather dwelled in the chaos all night than followed Noé out the front entrance, down the steps to where our carriage awaited us.

The roads of the capital were unusually quiet. Through the coach window, I watched the sea roll by, mainland Balmoore little more than a dark crescent in the distance. Had it been daytime, I could have picked out the craggy forms of the cloisters looking in from the coastline; now, though, they were hidden, wolves in the dark.