Page 59

“A woman of few words tonight?” He pushes off the windowsill, moving to light the lantern on his desk. Every motion is slow, as if he has all the time in the world. He crosses to the couch and reaches for a bottle of dark amber liquor on the coffee table.

“Would you like a drink?” he asks, almost gently. Damn it.

I nod. He pours me a small glass and sets it on the table between us before taking one for himself. Dressed head to toe in his royal garb, he looks every bit the perfect prince and far too good for his own safety. Except that his wavy brown hair is slightly ruffled, like the wind tossed it. And of course there’s the blood and ash that’s staining some of his clothing.

I move slowly to the couch across from him. His amber eyes track my every step. For some reason, when he looks at me, tiny flecks of fire seem to glow within them.

“How are we meant to have a conversation when your entire face is hidden behind a hood?” he asks, taking a slow drink. I shrug, then push it back.

“Ah,” he murmurs. “There she is.” A feeling flutters low in my stomach at his words—one I’m not used to.

I lift the glass, letting the whiskey burn its way down my throat. “So,” I say, meeting his gaze. “We’re even.”

“No,” he says. “I don’t believe we are. What gave you that impression?” That infuriating smile tugs at his mouth, the kind that makes me want to either stab him or… I’m not even entertaining that thought right now.

“I saved you. You saved me. We’re even,” I shoot back.

“Ah,” he murmurs, “but you still haven’t told me what you saved me from.” His smile turns wicked and taunting in a way that could melt a person in entirely all the wrong places.

I lift my cloak and expose half my body, my black leathers clinging to me like a second skin. His eyes flare at the sight. I pull out the blood mark bearing his name and toss it on the table between us. “Here.” He picks it up, reads it once, then lazily drops it. He takes another sip.

We stare at each other in silence, two souls measuring the other, as if we met in another life and never quite forgot. “Well?” I say at last, breaking the silence, I’m growing impatient.

“I don’t think that little love note makes us even.”

I narrow my eyes. “Love note? Did you even read it?”

“Did you not just see me do that?” His sarcasm grates, and he lets out a low, dark laugh. I’m somewhat taken aback by how quick he is. And how much that provokes me. “You know, Archer has been playing three sides of this war his entire life. If I had a piece of gold for every blood mark I’ve seen just like this… well, I’d be even richer than I already am.”

“Three sides?” I ask, frowning. I only know two, the pirates and the royals.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “The pirates. Dear old father. And the revolution.” His eyes glow brighter. There it is. The revolution. It’s real.

“He wouldn’t want to take down the leader of an entire revolution, not when it would cause a sensation among the populace that the leader is their own crown prince. Archer is a fool, but not that much of one. This is him testing you as the new leader of the Slayers Academy. Sending someone to try to kill me without knowing who I really am… or what magic I possess. Even Archer doesn’t know all that I am, and he’s afraid to kill me himself. He knows that even you couldn’t pull it off.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in quiet amusement.

“Don’t be so sure of yourself,” I snap, venom lacing every word.

“Oh?” Roman’s eyes gleam. “I’d love to watch you try. It would be quite a show, one I’d be very happy to sit back and enjoy.”

I roll my eyes, dismissing his sorry excuse of a flirt. “So this revolution,” I start, cutting him off.

“Yes, little ember?” he replies, patient. The way he looks at me when I speak is infuriating—like every word I offer is a coin slipping from my fingers, and he intends to collect them all. I study him for a moment. He’s clean shaven and far too beautiful to trust, but all the answers I need are right here.

“What is it? What do you do?” I lean back into the couch.

“Well,” he says softly, “I do things like what you did tonight.” Damn it. He knows.

Unease rakes through me. “What did I do tonight?” I ask, forcing a carelessness that I know he sees straight through. Roman leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands propping up his face.

“Don’t play dumb with me. You know what I am. And I know what you are. Your secret is safe with me as long as mine is safe with you.”

Then his hands begin to glow. My breath catches and I’m transfixed by the soft gold emanating from his palms. I was half-dead when I last saw this, but there’s no mistaking it now. Healing hands. A myth come alive right in front of me.

He moves toward me, slow and deliberate, and drops to his knees. His glowing hand slips beneath my cloak, pushing the fabric aside. My body does nothing to protest his touch. I’m too curious to defend myself against this.

My gaze follows his, down to my leg where a deep slash cuts through my leathers. Blood seeps freely into my boot. The thorny bush outside the gates, I realize. I didn’t even notice it. His hand finds my thigh, nowhere close to the wound.