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I came within an undead breath of forfeiting my immortality for her.
Sweet demons of Netheris, I still might if I fail to find Lyra because I allowed Eira to become a fatal distraction.
The sound of iron closing behind Eira is final. And monumentally insufficient. I stand in the centre of the Vault suite and listen to her being taken deeper below my Tower.
Her pulse moves away from me, but not quickly enough to quiet the rage or slowly enough to keep the part of me I despise from following every beat.
The mental thread between us strains.
She throws herself at it once, hard enough that I feel the shape of my name in her panic, and I close my mind with such violence that the lamps gutter. If I allow even one syllable of her fear inside me, I will go after her. If I go after her, I will either drag truth from her mouth by force or take her into my arms.
Both possibilities disgust me. Then tempt me as nothing ever has.
My hand curls into a fist as the stone beneath my feet cracks. ‘Everyone out,’ I say.
The remaining Twelve don’t move.
That is new. Dangerous.
Luca’s bruised throat is healing, but the imprint of my violence still shadows the skin. Aaron watches me with the quiet horror of a man cataloguing a battlefield he cannot retreat from, then his attention moves to Rowan, then to the door through which Eira has just disappeared.
Their questions press against my throbbing skull.
Why is she alive? Why is she in the dungeon instead of ash? Why did he not tear out her throat where she stood?
The answer should be simple.
She is useful because she is the source of what is happening to me.
I need not say more than that. ‘Get. The fuck. Out,’ I snarl, and the quieter timbre of it achieves the desired reaction.
This time they obey.
Still… Malachi, having delivered Eira to the dungeon, is last to leave. His gaze holds mine for one measured second, and beneath obedience I sense elation. He has wanted distance between Eira and me from the beginning. He has it now. But if he thinks this pleases me, he will learn otherwise.
The door shuts but Rowan remains.
Of course she does.
Poised near the foot of the bed, pale hair unbound, black dress severe enough to make her look carved from winter and witchcraft, her eyes move over me with clinical, irritating precision. The mark burns under her attention as though it resents being read.
‘Speak,’ I say.
Her brow lifts. ‘That was almost polite.’
‘Do not confuse restraint with hospitality.’
‘I said you used to be hospitable. But for three days, you’ve forbidden your people to bring me near you, then chosen to greet me half-dressed, poisoned, and furious at everyone except the woman who placed herself at the centre of it.’
My vision sharpens. ‘Choose care with your next reference to Eira. And I didn’t greet you. You invaded my bedroom uninvited.’
‘Fascinating.’
‘Rowan…’
‘She has a name you guard as if it is already written in your blood.’
Something violent stirs under my skin. ‘You said I was poisoned.’
