Page 31 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

The water that passes my lips is cool and pleasant and utterly benign. Dante drinks his first cup slowly, the second a little faster. After a third, he leans one hip against the well and turns it in his hands. The sky has lightened even further. We will be able to leave soon.

“I’m sorry,” Dante says, out of nowhere, and I look at him in surprise.

“What could you possibly have to be sorry for?”

He reddens at my words, and his eyes dart away. “I don’t… I don’t know. I didn’t want you to be stuck here. Don’t want you to be. If you don’t want to be here.”

“Ophelia would not be here if not for me. Neither would you nor Grant. If this is the price I have to pay—”

“We’ll find a way out of it,” he says softly. “I mean, I’ll try. I’m sure Grant will too, if I ask him.”

My stomach flutters. The feeling is novel, reminding me of the first handful of times I set my eyes on him. I have trained it out of myself in recent years, but perhaps I should not have done that.

“Thank you, but the path ahead is clear.” I set my cup down on the edge of the well and move a little closer. Dante does not move back. He is not much shorter than I am, but he still tilts his face up to look at mine, and his dark eyes are wide and wary. “I am sorry. Truly. But I will not have you suffer here. I would never take you from your pack and the people you love, and I will not put you in danger when it comes to the crown.”

“And what if I want to help you? You’ve made a lot of decisions for me already. You… Why did you agree to that deal? Why suggest it?”

He presses his lips together at the end of the sentence, frowning as though he did not expect the words to escape. I cannot help myself. I reach up and gently cup his jaw, running my thumb over rough stubble and soft skin.

“I truly do not know what I was thinking, except that I wanted anything other than to be in this realm, sitting on that throne. And as for the other… I would never be able to refuse your help,” I murmur, and the bite of iron is nowhere to be tasted; I do not want to lie. “But if you would do me the honour, I would prefer you never put yourself in danger where I am concerned.”

Dante’s breath catches. He stares at me for a moment in the same starry-eyed way I have seen him do before, and like all those times, it makes my head swim. I do not know what he sees in me that makes him look at me like that. Goodness knows I have not earned it.

“I’m not going to promise that,” he says eventually. “I could. I could lie. But I’m not going to.”

I run my thumb over his skin again. A bird twitters somewhere amongst the trees, and I finally drop my hand, taking the smallest step back. “Thank you for your honesty then.”

His lips twitch. “Anytime.”

I return the bucket to its resting place and Dante sets his cup alongside mine. He waits for me before we approach the cottage again, and for the first time since I received the note about Ophelia’s kidnapping, the knot in my chest loosens.

It does not even tighten when we walk back into the cottage. The witch is moving around, putting things into a small bag she carries, and Grant stands by the window, looking out into the trees. He stretches his hands above his head and lets out a sigh.

“Did the meditation work?” Dante asks.

Grant whirls around and gives him a grin. “Yeah! Well, I think so. I guess we’ll see?”

“You will do admirably, vampire,” the witch says. She tugs the drawstrings of the pouch in her hand closed and holds it out to Dante. “Here.”

He hesitates. “That…?”

“Consider it a gift,” she says. She shakes it, and Dante reaches out and takes it. “From what I can tell, those are all things that should be useful to you.”

“Thank you,” he says. He does not open the pouch and look inside, and she does not ask him to. She smiles as he pushes it into his pocket. “The sun’s almost up. Are we ready to go?”

Grant flits over to his side. “Ready when you are. Do we know where we’re going?”

The witch chuckles. “You’ll find the path.” Her gaze flicks to me. “Good luck, Your Highness.”

I incline my head in response. I should thank her for giving my power back to me, but I do not feel generous. I have been trapped here—by my own machinations, perhaps, but I am trapped all the same.

She does not see us to the door. She bustles off into her workroom again and Grant raises his eyebrows at us, pressing his lips together.

Dante interprets the look. “Time to go.”

We leave the cottage, and I feel the tug of the witch’s magic that will lead us toward the path we need to take. Dante and Grant do not argue as I begin walking; they simply drop into step behind me, as they did on the way here.

Perhaps that is for the best. As the suns rise, the plants unfurl and awaken and react to my power. Magic ripples through them as they do their best to greet me, welcome me home. Even the witch’s plants recognise a royal fae.