Page 187 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Every inch hurt. Emmeline didn’t know how much more she could take before she snapped.

Desperate to grasp onto the rope as it stretched, Emmeline asked, “Would you like to come somewhere with me first?”

He didn’t even blink before he answered. “Anywhere.”

Chapter Sixty

Roremar

A wall had been broken.

It was obvious Emmeline wanted him as badly as he did her. Her confessions at Wisteria Falls said as much. But she’d had so many choices taken from her. She’d gone from following a relentless goal to being forced into a role she never wanted. Roremar would tear through the stars to have her, but she needed to let him. It needed to be her choice, her relinquishing of this fear that held her back.

So Roremar would wait and follow her around this city as long as she’d have him.

The clouds shifted as they entered the Third District, and the misty dawn light spilled over her. Fates, she was beautiful.

No, that word wasn’t enough.

She was regal and endless and powerful, carved of the stars and born of every damn perfect dream he ever dared to conspire.

He didn’t just want her, he needed her. A physical ache in his bones, a seizing of his breath. Like nothing in this realm made sense unless she was in his arms.

Because she was his. He thought she had been his since before he’d met her, when she was a nameless set of hazel eyes plaguing his dreams. When she was nothing more than a means to an end.

She was always his.

And he was trapped watching her pretend she wasn’t.

“Fuck the Fates,” he whispered, voice as ragged as his will as he followed Emmeline past a row of taverns, hoods up and as nondescript as possible.

Despite the fact that everything in the city was a Fatesdamned mess, as his footsteps traced hers, something was healed. This—them sneaking quietly through sleeping alleys, his heart beating out of his chest with how much he loved her—was normal.

Emmeline led him to a street where the opera house and a theater loomed at the end of the cul-de-sac. Bright signs declared costumery and tailors and all manners of masks sold at the various shops lining the row, but no one was out this early.

Emmeline stopped between an apartment and tavern, crouching low to the stone.

“Do you see it?” she whispered.

Roremar stooped at her side, tilting his head to let the mystlight lamp behind him illuminate the ground—a pair of wings. “The Warders of Selene?”

Emmeline nodded, gaze flicking up to him. “This is where I was attacked the night before the opening ceremonies.”

His gut soured, the knife wound in his own side throbbing. Roremar brushed his fingers over the symbol of the cult, trying not to picture Emmeline fighting for her life on this very street.

The wings weren’t carved or painted. It looked like they were part of the stone itself.

“And you still have no idea who it was? No one’s tried again?”

“No,” she said. “Granted I normally have guards with me now, but there’s been no sign of him.” She contemplated the sigil for a second, adding, “When I was looking for information on the temple traders, I found a reference to a place called the Temple of Selene. It’s the only other mention of Selene I’ve seen. Do you think it could be connected?”

“The temple trades to the Warders?”

“My sister’s kidnapping, the temple trades, the Averian… all connected back to the Fates and the Warders of Selene?”

When she laid it out like that, it seemed more likely. Roremar blew out a breath, straightening and looking around the street for any more symbols. “Could be. But let’s focus on this one for now since it’s in front of us. Then we’ll find your sister. How’d you fight off the guy who attacked you again?”

“Clawed at him. Threw a dagger. Eventually, others exited the tavern, and he realized he wasn’t getting me,” Emmeline said simply. “Left some deep scratches on his arms—they may scar.”