I wonder what she’d do if I reached out now.
Would she turn to me? Pull me in? Let the dam break?
Or would she look at me with that same steel in her spine, that same fire she carries like a torch, and tell me no again?
Not here. Not yet.
I close my eyes, trying to banish the heat crawling through me. But sleep doesn’t come.
Only her breathing. Steady. Present. Alive beside me.
Already, I can’t imagine my life without hearing it.
13
RIVER
The sun hasn’t cleared the smog-drenched rooftops by the time I find him.
Cervantes waits in a little courtyard choked with dead ivy and crumbling statues of gods no one names anymore. He’s perched on the edge of a fountain that hasn’t burbled in years, one leg crossed over the other, a silver flask glinting in one hand. A coil of incense smolders beside him, pungent and sweet—meant to mask the scent of blood, I’d bet.
He looks at me like a cat sizing up a mouse that wandered back willingly.
“River,” he drawls, voice like velvet dragged over glass. “I was beginning to think you’d stood me up. I would’ve beenheartbroken.”
“Your heart’s been dead a while,” I say. “Don’t pretend it can break.”
His smile flashes—too white, too fast. “Touché. But a man can stillpretend, can’t he?”
I don’t answer. Just fold my arms and stare.
He sighs and stands, brushing imaginary dust from his immaculate coat. There’s not a crease on him. His boots gleam.His cravat’s pinned with a blood-red gem. He smells like sandalwood and danger. Like temptation soaked in centuries of bad decisions.
“You’re late,” he says, not unkindly.
“You’re early.”
“I’m always early. It’s a terrible habit.”
I cut through the pleasantries. “You said you had the papers.”
He makes a show of being wounded. “Straight to business? And here I thought we’d have a little flirtation first. I even wore my best smile.”
“You always wear your worst intentions.”
“That’s what makes me interesting.”
I roll my eyes, but my mouth twitches. Bastard’s infuriating, but at least he doesn’t lie about it.
Cervantes reaches into his coat, slow and theatrical, and withdraws a thin bundle wrapped in oilskin. He hands it to me with a wink.
“For you, my dearest war criminal.”
I unroll it. There it is—a perfect replica of a House Laertiez invitation. Gilded ink, crimson seal, the sigil pressed deep and sharp.
“Convincing enough?”
I run my thumb over the wax. “It’ll do.”
