A chill runs down my spine. I guess he’s right. There’s an irony in the salute that’s inescapable once you think about it.Hope for peace; prepare for war.
“Language is interesting,” I admit.
I glance at Malach, but his green eyes are clouded.
The itch between my shoulder blades hits me hard. I wiggle my wings, but it doesn’t help. Without a word, Luca’s fingers search for the spot, gently scratching until I relax.
“We need to talk about Alistair, baby,” he says gently.
My wings sag, and I sigh. “Something is wrong with him; I know that, but if he doesn’t want to tell us, I don’t see what we can do about it.”
Luca nibbles his lip ring. “That’s the Fringes talking. Not you.”
I frown. “Alistair is as Fringe-coded as it gets, Luca. He doesn’twant us digging around in his business.” The electric sting in my fingertips tells me I’m not nearly as confident in my words as I want to be.
“He’s spiraling, or circling the drain, or something,” Luca insists. “His face was gray last night, Celine. Fucking gray. That’s not normal.”
I picture the sunken, sickly pallor of Alistair’s skin and shiver. Combined with the lurching way he ran off... Dammit, Luca’s right.
“What do you think?” I ask Malach.
He’s been mostly keeping his opinions to himself. It’s a relief, but also wildly unlike him. Malach wields judgment as effectively as his sword, and he’s never been shy about it. Either I’m not the only one who’s changed during our years apart or he’s holding back.
“Nai varash di-snai, khirel . . .”Malach says.
I stiffen as yet another box I keep carefully locked flies open and yanks me inside, ripping me out of the Vegas gym and pulling me back in time.
We’re young, Malach and I—hardly mature enough to be making promises to each other. Dressed all in gold, expensive silk caresses my skin as I face him on the raised dais. My hands shake and his throat bobs. His nerves calm me down. I feel myself smile and watch my lips curl—somehow inside and outside my body at the same time as I relive our betrothal day.
“Nai varash di-snai, khirel, tallom shmai.Ifek di varash turns’tel, di jharim karash’tel.”Malach’s voice cracks halfway through the vow, and it’s perfect. He’s perfect. A tear rolls down my cheek, and hope—its wings made of folded steel—wraps around my heart.
A better life with Malach... In that moment, I believed and longed for it with everything I had.
Heart pounding, I turn away from the past and focus on the present. The salty smell of sweat in the gym. The burn in mybiceps from an hour of sparring. And a pair of familiar green eyes. Those I won’t forget, even if I live ten lifetimes.
“My word belongs to you, beloved...” I murmur the vow and continue past where Malach left off. “As fully as it breathes life inside my soul. May the day I use it against you also be the day it carves my beating heart from my chest.”
The memory scrapes me raw.
It’s better to forget. Remembering hurts.
“Why, Malach?” It’s all I can think to say. Why remind me? Why come here? Why cling to the past when it’s tearing us apart?
Malach breaks eye contact abruptly, and it throws me off balance. When he drops his sword to the mat and rushes out of the gym, I want to follow him. Beg him not to go. Yell at him for making me remember. But my feet won’t move.
“People keep storming away from me,” I say. “I’m not sure I can stand to know why. Not on top of everything else.”
Instead of responding, Luca threads his fingers with mine and squeezes. Warmth radiates from his palm to mine, a quiet comfort that anchors me even as the storm rages inside me. Gods.What would I do without him?
“I don’t think you’re cold-blooded at all, Luca Saratelli.” Turning my head, I kiss him softly. Our lips meet like puzzle pieces slotting together, and I sigh as I pull away.
“He’s adapting well, all things considered,” Luca says.
I smile. “Not cold-blooded at all,” I repeat.
Luca’s soft heart challenges me. He sees things differently than I do. Where I expect the worst and assign motives to every interaction, Luca prefers to wait and see, keeping a neutral point of view until proven otherwise.
I tuck my head into the hollow beneath his chin. Another perfect fit. “Who should we prioritize? Alistair, Ciprian, or Malach?”
