Page 114 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“How about we see them when we break down the door?” Roremar suggested.

Emmeline squeezed his arm and, tension returning to her frame, went on, “There was more in the documents.” Why in a Fate’s fuck did that matter right now? She hadn’t told him details before dragging him out here. “The War Master had the Accords give us records of known Fate ties. Of Arenothos and Aevollon, especially those who are no longer on Alvan.” Why were her eyes shuttering and the grip on his arm slacking? Why wasn’t she burning with the need for vengeance? Fates, he saw the bruises around her neck every time he closed his eyes. “Of those who are aligned to both Arenothos and Aevollon.”

At her tone, ice spread down Roremar’s spine, but before he could say anything, the mystlights in the kitchen they’d been watching winked out.

A moment later, the door creaked open. Emmeline was over the edge of the building, descending the stone facade before he could say anything.

Roremar raced after her as he tried to make sense of what she was implying.

Their boots landed silently on cobblestones, and they flew up the narrow street. She’d been so reluctant to tell him this evidence. Nervous even. She couldn’t mean⁠—

He pulled up short when a familiar silhouette exited the building and stepped beneath the mystlight lantern gilding the cobblestones.

“Desmond?” Roremar asked. “What are you doing here?”

He had the great, distant sense of a wave tossing him around like a rag doll. Tumbling head over heels until he came up spluttering, only to be blindsided by a second in quick succession.

Of icy sea foam in his lungs.

No clue which way was up as the current beat him.

It was that pounding that nearly took him out when Emmeline stepped in front of him, triple-blade raised, and said in a voice laced with ice, “I really didn’t want to be right about this.” Roremar’s world cracked as she glanced sorrowfully at him, in a way that assured him nothing would ever be the same after her next words. “I knew it was you, Desmond. You’ve been the murderer this entire time.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Emmeline

Her heart splintered as she flicked Roremar a quick glance, and understanding crackled across his grey eyes. It felt like a goodbye.

A distant part of her screamed.

“Des?” Roremar asked, looking between Emmeline and his friend, and she realized he was talking to her, not Desmond. “He’s your suspect?” He shook his head vehemently. “No. No way.”

“He’s not just a suspect, Roremar. I know it,” Emmeline spat.

“You better watch that violent tongue, darling,” Desmond growled, voice as low and lethal as she’d ever heard it. Even Roremar’s spine straightened.

With every passing second, the warmth in Desmond’s amber eyes faded further, replaced by a fury she’d only ever sensed beneath the surface. The one that had mounted on the ship back from Alvan—when she’d been narrowing in on a connection to Arenothos and Aevollon.

“What in a Fate’s starry-eyed fuck is happening?” Roremar asked. There was such a blindsided confusion twisting his words, it pierced Emmeline’s chest. Despite all his hyper observance, for once, the Reckless was dumbfounded, denial slowing his upkeep.

She opened her mouth to lay out the mountain of evidence she’d gathered, but Desmond sliced through her accusations. “We can’t do this here.” He checked over his shoulder. The mystlights in the windows were still out, not a soul moving behind the curtain. Fixing that sharp stare on Emmeline, he clipped, “Beach. Now.”

“After you,” Emmeline purred, squinting at him. If he ran, she’d take to the roofs. She was faster in the skies than the alleys, with their winding turns and clutter. She wouldn’t let Desmond get away again.

Ignoring Roremar’s questioning looks, Emmeline waited for Desmond to pass her, Roremar a step behind. In silence as brittle as blown glass, they traipsed down the winding path to the beach, her triple blade clenched between her fingers the entire time.

Her magic had been suffocating her for hours, and she feared it was ready to burst. The ever-present press beneath her skin was a vice, constricting and squeezing her lungs. Begging to dominate—to control—but she contained it.

They exited onto an empty cove at the base of the Peddler’s District. The waves washed ashore, their gentle roar discordant with the fury burning through Emmeline and the magic pushing for release. All night she’d been fretting over how to tell Roremar of her suspicions. She’d tried to lay out the details for him to follow as they waited, but it was like there was a brick wall in his mind, refusing to see this obvious treachery.

So she’d ripped open the wound.

And now, as they stopped within a crescent outcrop of cliffs, he’d have to bleed beneath the evidence.

It tore her open, but infected wounds couldn’t heal unless the poisons were dug out, and that excruciating process had to begin somewhere.

“Spell it out, Miss DeLeoste,” Desmond seethed.