Page 80 of House of the Iron Reaper

I bark out a laugh. Saints, it feels nice to laugh.

“No, Dey.” I shake my head. “What will you do after you Ascend?”

Deyanara stops short, straightening. She blinks several more times and I can almost hear the gears churning in her head.

“I…” She scratches her chin. “I suppose I do not know. I have never considered it.”

I straighten as well, frowning.

“You do not think you will Ascend?” I ask.

“I have just never considered the future,” Deyanara replies with a shrug. “I have never planned what I would do—I assumed I would not be here, I suppose.”

An icy manacle clamps around my heart. Deyanara speaks as casually as she would about the weather, not as if she says the most heartbreaking sentiment I have ever heard. Indignation flares.

“You listen to me, Deyanara,” I say with a quiet fury. Deyanara swallows. “If you dare die, I will rip you from the hands of the Reapers myself.”

I cross the space between us in three quick strides, until there is barely an inch between us. Deyanara nearly steps back but holds herself. My heart thumps in my throat, tears pushing behind my eyes. I grab her by the front of her shirt and pull her face down to mine.

“I will reach into whatever realm houses your soul and I will pull it back.” I tell her. “Do you understand me?”

Deyanara stares down at me, grey eyes wide. And because I still do not know if she understands, because I need her to understand, I push myself up to my toes and kiss her.

I swallow her gasp, hooking my hand around the nape of her neck to anchor myself against her. Deyanara pulls me closer, wrapping an arm around my waist as her lips part mine. She tastes bright and sharp and I draw away, breathless.

“You taste like lightning,” I whisper and move my lips to her cheeks, kissing away the tears there.

“Thank you,” Deyanara murmurs against my mouth.

I bury my face in her neck and breathe her in. My grip does not loosen on her. I hold her as though if I can just hold on tight enough, I can save her.

Chapter 41

Novalie

I step out into the arena and focus on everything around me.

The crowd cheering, awash in purple—not from witch magic but from glass pins and violet tunics, a demonstration of their support. The enthusiasm feels foreign but not unwelcome and I allow myself a tight smile.

My eyes swivel across the crowd. It doesn’t take long to find them and I bite down a bigger smile when I do. Nestled amongst House Copper sits Deyanara and Ronan, squashed awkwardly next to Meris. Or, at least, Deyanara is awkward—Ronan has cheerfully slung his arm around the back of Meris’s seat and, even at a distance, I can see him yapping away. Meris, for her part, appears to be nodding along amiably.

But I can see it in her eyes. In all their eyes. The worry notching their brows, wringing their hands. Even Ronan, talking too much.

Deimos, dropping as though his strings were cut.

I dig my fingernails into my palm. The sharp pain shocks me back. This is not the time, I scold myself. Wallow afterwards, when you’ve won.

I draw my shoulders back and meet my fate face-to-face.

The crowd rumbles as all eyes turn to the tunnel, awaiting the doomkin. Boots pound the sand, stomping rhythmically, drowning out the sound of my slamming heartbeat.

I wait.

And I wait.

No doomkin comes.

My hands clench and unclench as I stare at the tunnel, willing something to manifest in the dark. Where is it? What is happening?