Page 119 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

She stiffened but pursed her lips. Classic Silventa stubbornness. “I don’t see a need to worry⁠—”

“Someone was killed in this city, in the same way a Fate we all thought was dead killed women who have your fucking Fate tie.” He let out every drop of pent-up anger and concern that had been bleeding him dry these past months. The reason he’d become such a grouchy ass, as Myrella and Roremar had both pointed out. “We don’t know if it’s a copycat killer or what. But yeah, Lola, I’m here because I’m worried about you. Because the only thing that kept me from going out of my fucking mind when this all happened was that it was only on Lyra and you weren’t. That your brothers would never let that happen to you. But now the killer is here, and you’re here, and I’m fucking worried.”

When Emmeline had accused him of being the murderer, he’d lost every semblance of control. And he hadn’t been able to tell anyone why. That he’d never kill anyone, but Anphrosia Fate ties? He saw Lola in every victim.

“Desmond, we aren’t…this. We aren’t people who need to worry about one another like that.”

“Trust me, sweetheart, I know precisely what we are and aren’t. You’ve been very clear about that.”

There were always rules. She’d come home four times in the past decade. A couple weeks each time. And he’d get one night with her—never anything more than company. No sex, no confessions of feelings. Just reflections about their artwork, tattoos, deeper conversations than he had with almost anyone. Lingering touches and the pit of longing that opened in his gut sometime after her first visit when he realized he missed her like he missed the sun in fucking winter.

Roremar always said Desmond knew how to hold a grudge, and he never corrected him on that. But deep down, it wasn’t only resentment Desmond Alvanti was primed to cling to. It was happiness and joy and anything that was fleeting.

And that all came back to the girl before him now who never allowed him to be more than a moment in time.

Lola’s lips parted at the heat in his voice. “Then you know that you can’t be here.”

“You shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’m fine.”

“Please, sweetheart.” He did a daring thing, then. Stepping forward, he tipped her chin up, forced her big blue eyes to his. “I know you’re not afraid, but please, let me stay. For my own sake, let me be here so I know you’re okay.”

“Why?” she whispered.

Why do you care?

Why are you doing this to me?

Why can’t you stay away?

He heard every one of those unspoken questions. His answer in turn was just as quiet, just as steeped in things that had to remain unsaid. “Because no matter what, I’m always going to care about you.”

Lola swallowed, her throat bobbing against Desmond’s hand, and he suppressed a shiver at the warmth of her skin. Relishing in that, taking her silence as agreement, he released her and strode across the room.

“Tell me about the head liaison job.” Desmond dropped onto the bench beneath the window, fluffing the pillows to make himself more comfortable. “And how you got stuck following Emmeline fucking DeLeoste around like a wolf pup instead of working in the art industry like you came here for.”

“I—what?”

Unlacing his boots, he looked up at her. “I’m staying, Lols. And before you complain, we’re only hanging out as we always have. One night, right? This can be the one night for this visit. Tell me about your art these past few years.”

Lola fisted the tie of her robe, the shadows of paint she could never fully get off her hands catching Desmond’s eye. Not much disarmed her, but as he remembered, he did. Always had, since they were young and he was just her older brother’s best friend.

It had always been endearing to him, but then she’d grown up. Life had gotten a lot more serious for the both of them with their family situations, and at some point, things shifted. Roremar always teased him for sleeping with so many women on Lyra, but Desmond hadn’t exactly been honest with his best friend. He’d barely been able to stomach another touch for years.

He missed Lola. He relied on her company; he cared about her. Unspoken, unfulfilled, un-fucking-deniable.

Finally, Lola relented, giving him one of his favorite lazy smiles normally reserved for the late, sleepy hours after midnight. “One night. And you’re gone before sunrise.”

“I’ve always excelled at sneaking out windows, in case you’ve forgotten.” He gave her a wolfish grin that she immediately turned away from, but not before he caught the flush to her cheeks. He knew she was remembering their second to last visit on Lyra when he’d stayed in her room at her family’s home all night and they’d had to speak in low whispers with only one candle.

Clearing her throat, Lola said, “Can’t recall.”

“I’ll remind you.” Desmond reclined against the wall, tucking one leg up and drumming his fingers on his knee.

Lola studied him for a moment, then sighed. She crossed to the writing desk that was strewn with palettes and brushes, opening a drawer and rifling around. When she found what she was looking for, she turned back and marched across the room, bare feet quiet in the fluffy rug.

“Here,” she said, holding out a leather-bound journal and charcoal.