Page 155 of The Dragon and the Dove

She wasn’t surprised by his request. Neither was her magic. It had practically shoved her down here, seeking the inevitability of this moment.

Still, the choice was hers.

‘Why?’ she said, carefully.

‘So I can be useful.’

‘You might end up growing flowers with Nadia.’

He shrugged. ‘Then I’ll give them to Valerie.’

‘So you do love her.’

He ignored the taunt. ‘Gold blood makes me immune to Andreas’s power of persuasion. I might not become a weapon, but I’ll be a better shield.’

Her magic purred in approval.

‘How romantic.’

He gave her a flat look. ‘You’ve lost your soul-eater. Andreas is unkillable. Seems like a good time to stack the odds in our favour.’

It was a fair argument.

He pushed again. ‘Use me, Sera. Make me.’

It was the will of fate that steeled her resolve. That, and the plea in his eyes. This wasn’t about power or ambition; it was about love. She didn’t yet trust Caruso, but she trusted Val. And Caruso would bind himself, and his power, to her cause. Of that, she was unerringly sure.

She didn’t think about the thorns on her body or the saint on the roof or the pain of what would come after. Giving in to the pull of destiny, she tossed a cushion on the floor and told Caruso Dantes, the most unhinged Dagger in Fantome, to lie down and shut up.

For once, he did as he was told.

Rolling up the sleeves of her robe, Sera came to her knees. He opened the top buttons of his shirt, revealing a chest covered in deep black whorls and thick silver scars. The moment she pressed her palm against it, her magic erupted.

Dizziness rushed her, and she swayed, losing herself to her power. She was a vessel. A living conduit made to give, and give, and give.

So she gave.

Oblivion crept in.

And, oh, how it hollowed her out.

Chapter 44 Seraphine

Sera woke to a sharp pain in her chest. Parting her robe and pulling up her camisole, she traced the new thorn beside her heart.

A sharp inhale made her turn. Ransom was sitting in a chair by her bedside, his eyes pinned to that new black mark.

‘You’re awake.’ His voice was a prayer in dawn’s half-light. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Like I’ve been run over by a wagon. Twice.’ She turned, wincing at the stretch. He leaned closer, and she noted the dark rings under his eyes. ‘You should sleep, Ransom.’

‘When I’m dead.’

Anxiety hummed between them, his jaw so tight it looked painful. She brushed her fingers along the stubble there. ‘If you won’t sleep, then bathe with me,’ she said. ‘I ache.’

His lips flickered, the storm of his anguish breaking. ‘Where do you ache, spitfire?’

‘Everywhere,’ she whispered.