Page 124 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

And a part of him wanted to dismantle the entire Fatesdamned thing. He’d put her back together afterward—he was good at that part—but his chest ached as if he needed to know what was behind the mask.

He couldn’t, though. No matter how badly he wanted to, she had crossed a line, and he had his siblings to worry about.

“Trust me, Huntress. I’ve noticed.”

It wasn’t like he hadn’t lied and cheated before, but to deceive him into accusing his best friend of murder? It was a different level of dishonesty. Even just the consideration of it choked him.

But he’d watched Emmeline closely these weeks. He’d tucked away plenty of facts about her. What candles she gravitated toward. How she’d folded and refolded the corners of her papers or books while she worked. That Fatesdamned lip bite. But most importantly, he’d learned how much she isolated herself.

He’d thought about it since speaking with Nico at the Trade House yesterday. He didn’t understand why yet—hadn’t cracked that puzzle—but maybe that was a part of this. Every time they’d danced closer to each other, the threads were being pulled, an unraveling. She fought at the slightest sign of kinship forming. Maybe she didn’t understand his friendship with Desmond because she had never experienced something with that intrinsic level of trust.

Perhaps it went a step further, and that was why she fought to keep her guard up every Angel-forsaken moment of her life.

Sighing, Roremar pulled out a chair from the table and spun it around, bracing his arms on the back as he studied her. “I won’t force you to open up about other things, but when it comes to evidence in this case, you have to.”

“Agreed.”

In so few words, it was a line drawn. A bargain struck.

One corner of his lips quirked up, but he tugged it down.

“I’m still mad,” Roremar tacked on—more as a reminder to himself than to her. “Desmond will take time, but I’ll work with you. That’s all this is, though. A partnership.”

A fraction of his relief from earlier seemed to slip beneath her mask. “Good because I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I need your help.”

He leaned forward, the familiar thrill of their hunt pumping through his veins. “Tell me.”

She took a deep breath, every emotion wiping from her features. “We need to go to the Mezzanine.”

“We can’t just walk in and request an appointment,” Emmeline repeated for the third time as they approached the Mezz.

The structure was gilded in moonlight, music flowing from behind the closed doors. Couples littered the steps outside, the balconies above strung with mystlight lanterns casting wavering pools of light over their forms.

“Then what’s your plan?” Roremar asked.

Emmeline had insisted he change into a finely made black tunic trimmed in velvet before they walked over, her own dress lined with lace and dainty gems, an elaborate pattern of straps crossing her open back.

Wealth. That was their image tonight.

Emmeline glanced at Roremar over her shoulder as they stood before the towering doors to the Mezzanine, the music within already thumping through his blood. The words carved into the frame caught the light: Beyond these walls, worries wait. Within these halls, cravings sate.

“We gamble,” Emmeline said, voice dull.

“Curfew is in less than two hours,” Roremar reminded her as he held the door.

“Afraid of the Temple Master, Reckless?” Emmeline teased, but it didn’t have her usual mocking tone, and dammit he missed it.

“Depends. You have those pretty knives on you, Miss DeLeoste?”

Emmeline pulled up the hem of her dress, revealing a palm-sized dagger strapped to her ankle. Roremar was sure it wasn’t the only one on her. His throat dried out when he met her eyes again.

“Then, no, Huntress. I’m not afraid.” He swallowed, holding her stare.

That’s all this is. A partnership.

He was a Fatesdamned fool.

As if Emmeline heard his thoughts, she straightened, facing the door again. “We’ll be done by curfew anyway.”