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Having something—anything—touch her scars after months of nothing but pain, nothing but the grief of loss, had shocked Elyria momentarily. But these quiet moments after, when Cedric said nothing else, when he gave her space to sort through her feelings . . . it helped.
“We have to stop with all these apologies,” she said after a moment, blinking back the wetness lining her eyes. “They’re starting to outweigh all the other words we’ve said to each other, and I don’t particularly care for that.”
Cedric let out a low laugh. “You’re right, as always.”
She grinned. “Well, those are certainly words I’ll never tire of hearing. But not quite what I was getting at.”
“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. Is that better?”
“It’s a start. But you do have quite an attachment to saying sorry. I imagine we probably have a few . . . hundred . . . thousand . . . to go before you’ve eclipsed your previous apologies.”
He seized her by the waist, hauling her against him once more, and Elyria squealed in delight.
Cedric dipped his head, dotting a quick kiss over her bondmark that left her skin tingling. Grinning into her neck, he said, “An endeavor I will happily undertake, Trouble.”
17
BLOODLINES
KIT
The king’s seal stared up at her from where the edges of the parchment met. Dark wax, immaculately stamped with Aerithia’s royal crest—a winged heart, pierced with a longsword. Kit broke it with her thumbnail, already bracing herself for the message she knew would lie within.
My dear niece,
I am truly relieved to hear of the Revenant’s safe rescue, and your additional concerns about the Cult of Malakar have been noted. However, the crown still cannot justify committing our men to supposition and rumor. At present, any threat that may exist appears to be directed solely at the human kingdom, and I will not risk our people further.
My duty must first be to Nyrundelle, always. I trust you understand.
—L.
Well, at least he’d kept it short. Still, there was enough passive aggression laced between each neatly scripted letter to have Kit’s blood boiling.
“Supposition and rumor? Any threat that may exist?” she grumbled, crumpling the letter in her fist. No, Kit did not understand. Or, rather, she understood entirely too well.
Her uncle was a coward, simple as that.
She’d naively thought it would be an easier sell, now that needing to locate Elyria was no longer a paramount concern. Suddenly the situation really was only about stopping Malakar. Malakar, who had a known vendetta against Arcanians, who had hidden his followers in who knew how many villages across the continent. Kit would’ve thought those things would certainly be well within the limits of the king’s duty to Nyrundelle.
Evidently, she was wrong.
And that was how she found herself sitting at a sticky booth in the back of the Gilded Gryphon, nursing her wounds, along with the mug of ale that had sat idle in front of her for entirely too long.
Where the fuck was Sephone? Kit had called to meet with the fae the instant her uncle’s letter had arrived. She hadn’t needed to open it at home in order to know what it said. His face when she’d delivered the news about Elyria had told her everything she needed to know, even without the official decree.
Truly relieved, he’d said. That, Kit believed. But it was less for Elyria’s well-being and safety and more for the fact that he now had a clear path to saying no.
It was touching, in a strange sort of way, Kit supposed, that he had dillydallied on making his final decision because of Elyria. Because what that really meant was that he’d waffled because of Kit. Because he hadn’t wanted to have to tell her no, he would not help save her friend, her sister. He wouldn’t have to ostracize his own flesh and blood in the name of cowardice.
Little did he know, he’d done so all the same.
Kit smoothed the parchment on top of the wood-slatted table before neatly refolding it. She slid it into the inside pocket of the leather satchel that rested beside her on the bench. Then, from the same pocket, she withdrew a different letter.
Kit inhaled the faintest whiff of citrus and ink as she opened it and saw Tenny’s looping script filling the page. Kit didn’t have to read it again; she’d memorized it a hundred times over. The words were sketched onto her bones, along with the visceral wave of relief that had blasted through her when she’d first read them. It had been so strong that her knees had almost given out. Her vision had gone blurry, and for one awful, dizzying moment, she’d thought she might’ve been sick right then and there.
Thankfully, both for Kit’s dignity and for the sake of the messenger who’d delivered the missive’s boots, she managed to avoid that particular outcome. Still, she would never, ever, ever forget the way it had felt to read those words.
Ric found her. Elle is safe. They make for the sanctuary.
