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Quin blew out a breath and walked for the woods. One day, he had a feeling, his husband was going to regret the contempt with which he treated the second prince of Faelhorn. And it wouldn’t be because of the man’s station or any threats he made. But Quin would never be so foolish as to ever voice that suspicion to Verol.
Chapter Seventy-Three
I’ll Risk It, If You Will
For once in Clare’s experience of mornings, the next one came too soon. It wasn’t that she wanted to stay, precisely. She would never belong in a place like this, no matter how nice the people. Their well-meaning inclusivity would, she suspected, drive her to madness. But there was a type of peace to be found in the temporary escape, in pretending she belonged, for a time.
By unspoken agreement, she and Numair packed and left the house before anyone else woke. After a moment’s hesitation, Clare had carefully folded the outfit she’d worn to the solstice celebration, leaving it on the bed with a note that said only Nissa. The two women were close in size, and a skilled tailor could alter it to fit.
They had the horses saddled and Clare had just swung atop Kialla when Numair handed her Hellack’s reins. “I forgot something. Wait for me a minute.”
He wasn’t gone terribly long—ten minutes, at the most—but he wasn’t carrying anything with him when he returned. If what he’d forgotten was a physical item, then it fit in a pocket. She didn’t ask and he didn’t offer. They left the village in silence, and remained that way most of the first day’s journey.
What peace they’d found leeched from them the closer they came to Veralna. By the time the sun was high the next day, and they approached the woods outside the Arrendons’ estate, only a thin sliver of it remained. She couldn’t remember the last time either of them had spoken, and the horses stopped of their own accord just inside the woodland boundary, as if sensing their riders’ reluctance to continue.
Suddenly, Numair said, “I got you something.” He turned Hellack, sidling him next to Kialla but facing the opposite direction as the mare, so Numair faced Clare. His knee nearly brushed hers as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a necklace. It was the same style as the ones she’d seen in the village, the rectangle a matte black, the symbols etched in gold, but more ornate than any she’d seen there, with small chips of amber set around the etchings.
He held it out to her, his eyes dark and oddly vulnerable. “If you want it,” he said softly. “They are usually custom-made, and you weren’t able to choose this one, but?—”
“Yes.” She blurted the word out before she could overthink it. “Would you…?” She lifted her hair, holding it off her neck. He slid the thin black chain around, linking the clasp at her nape.
He swallowed and let the chain fall, but one hand hovered by her face. His eyes met hers. “Can I…?”
She nodded, her breathing short and shallow, and his fingertips brushed her cheek. The rough pads caressed her skin and before she could think about what she was doing, she leaned into it, until his hand cupped her face.
In another world, I think you could have made him happy. But they didn’t have another world. They only had this one, and if she still wasn’t convinced she knew what happiness was, she knew being with him was the closest she’d ever come to it. She knew being with her was the only time he ever looked free. She knew the warmth of his hand on her skin was making her pulse pound too fast, but not with fear.
She swallowed. “I think there’s something wrong with my heart.”
He laughed, short and raspy and nervous. “Mine too.” He held out his free hand and when she put hers in it, he placed it on his chest, where his thundering heartbeat was a twin to hers. His next words were so soft they could have been a whisper in the wind. “I really want to kiss you.”
Her breath caught. This was a terrible, stupid idea. “I really want you to kiss me. But I might punch you if you do. Reflex.”
His hand shook against her cheek. “I might throw up.”
And she knew, then, that if they did this, it wouldn’t only be the first kiss she’d chosen—it would be the first one he’d chosen, too. The first one either of them had been allowed to experience without coercion, without agenda.
She didn’t care what Nissa thought. She didn’t care what anyone else thought. She never had. She knew what she wanted. “I’ll risk it, if you will.”
And then the distance between them was gone, his lips a featherlight brush against her own. Once, twice, both of them trembling like leaves in an autumn wind.
“I didn’t hit you,” she whispered when they broke apart.
His thumb brushed across her cheek. “I didn’t throw up.”
Every nerve ending in her body was on fire in a way she’d never experienced and she leaned back in, chasing that feeling.
A throat cleared and she startled, jerking so badly that Kialla spooked three steps sideways. Verol sat astride Skye ten paces off, his expression unreadable. Numair turned Hellack to face him, and for a moment they all waited in silence, tense and awkward.
Then Verol broke it. “Could I have a word, Your Highness?”
“There’s nothing to—” Clare began, but she cut off when Verol lifted his hand.
“It won’t take long.”
She hesitated, and when she looked at Numair all his walls were firmly back in place. He gave her a tight nod. Some innate instinct told her not to leave, warned that if she did the moment would be gone and she would never get it back. But the moment was already gone, because that was what a moment was—a brief instant in time that couldn’t be held.
But there would be new ones, wouldn’t there?
