She swallows and looks away. “The Majester. Whether he fell or was pushed by Sir Coriand.”
“He was pushed,” I say gravely. I have no doubt about this. “Never underestimate a man who will keep a half-living slave.”
She looks back at me and I can tell she wants to say something but she doesn’t.
“Say it,” I urge.
She shakes her head, laughing ruefully.
“Say it.” I am firm this time.
“Fine, let it be so. Here is what I have to say: I ought not to take from you what is not yours to give. You are forsworn affection.”
She is correct, of course, in every way. By rights, she should be dead at my hand, and I should have a demon in a dog to contend with. But the God has stayed my hand. And by doing so, he has left me only two paths: ignore her entirely, a thing that cannot be done with her demon dog and her insistence on bucking the course others try to set for her, or embrace her. I have made my choice, the God have mercy on me.
I swallow and commit to it.
“If we live through the turnings of this monastery, then we will both emerge on the other side with a shared problem — three of them, to be precise.”
This gets her attention. “What three problems?”
“Firstly, that we have sworn to stay by each other until the cup is returned to one of the aspects. A cup, I might point out, that is not here and likely never has been.”
She nods steadily. “Yes.”
There is no fear or panic in her eyes, and I feel my brows lift. It’s not a paladin thing to fear commitment, but even so, I am essentially revealing to her that we are bound together indefinitely, and she does not recoil from that. Interesting. I am … a little … flattered by this.
“Secondly, that there is a demon in your dog which we will need help to remove, and it must be kept a secret until we find that help.”
“We?” Her tone is hopeful, and I feel a spark of hope ignite in response.
“We,” I say with certainty.
“Thirdly, that you have sworn to never forgive me.” Her eyes meet mine sharply and I feel hot again.
I take her hand. “I renounce my vow. I forgive you in all fullness.”
“Your resolve was very weak,” she teases.
“But only because of the third problem.”
“Fourth,” she corrects, as she steps closer, and now our breath is mingling. I don’t let go of her hand.
“No, that was your problem. I have not confessed to it. I knew from the moment my hand was stayed that forgiveness was granted to you.”
“Then tell me, what is your third problem?” Her gaze stays anchored to mine. I am losing myself in marigold eyes.
“My third problem is that I have fallen hopelessly in love with you.”
“That is a problem.” She looks a challenge at me. “What are you going to do about it?”
I draw nearer and nearer to her as I speak, until my lips are brushing hers as I say, “It is especially a problem since I have already kissed you once, and I have had no time to recover from the event, so it harms nothing at all for me to do it again, right now.”
This time it is she who presses herself into me and takes my lips in hers. I taste her excitement as if it is my own. I draw in her desire with the softness of her lips and the warmth of her breath and the silkiness of how her long hair tangles around me. Her strong, work-roughened fingers grip my face, and her nose slides against mine. I close my eyes and beg to lose myself forever.
This should wash me of none of my guilt. That is the domain of the God alone. And yet, in some indefinable way, it does. It makes redemption feel possible. It creeps down into my fibers and tells me that my shame need not blemish my honor forever.
I should not find forgiveness in the arms of a woman. I should not find hope in her kiss. That should be tainted with the stain of lust and be tangled up with my failures, my shortcomings, and my broken vows.
