Chaos still around us, flames heating the night air, I cup her cheek and coast my thumb along the delicate skin behind her ear.
I kiss her.
Kiss her with every part of me, tell her in that meeting of our lipsthat I’m sorry, I’m hers, over and over, repetition that deepens when our heads slant and she returns the kiss, fingers gripping the back of my neck.
The estate’s still burning behind us, and—
I launch back from her, gasping, one arm still looped across her back. “Darnley. He was in the building. Is he—”
I look over my shoulder at the house and the people hauling buckets in an effort to douse the flames.
Alyth shrugs. I feel the motion against me. “It’d be one good thing to come of this night.”
That draws me back to her. And I see the heaviness in her features now, the weight on her shoulders, ever on her shoulders.
Let me carry some of it,I want to say.
“Darnley arranged for me to—” I can’t say it. But I have to. “To kill you tonight. Which means likely—”
“That the Red Caps are moving on the wall as well.” Alyth draws in a resolute breath and rises to her feet. I follow her up, moving my hand to interlace with hers; I can’t not touch her now.
“Do you know where?” I ask, looking south toward the border.
“No, but I have to ride for the—”
Her eyes flick over my shoulder.
And her demeanor stiffens. Tension runs across her face, and she goes battle ready in an instant.
I whirl.
To see Darnley, standing in the yard, facing us.
He’s coated in soot, bleeding out one arm, his clothes ripped and ruined. He’s discarded his doublet, and his white undershirt is streaked with black grime.
“The washerwoman’s shirt,” Alyth whispers, her eyes wide. I haveno idea what that means, but Darnley’s livid, huffing and panting, shoulders hunched, hands in fists.
My arms splay in front of Alyth, and I brace for him to run at us.
But his head cocks to the left, like he’s listening for something, and his face goes vacant, unfocused. I stretch my awareness, but I don’t hear anything beyond the crackle of flames and the shouts of people trying to stop the destruction.
Darnley’s eyes roll back in his head. And that angle of his neck—he’s not listening, not confused.
His neck’s snapped.
His body plummets to the ground.
Before I can think beyond that, before I can make any sense of it, a figure’s revealed a few paces behind Darnley.
Cecil.
One hand outstretched, fingers curved.
“He outlived his usefulness,” Cecil says, eyes on me, and lets his arm drop to his side.
I thought I’d have time to form a plan before I saw my father again. I’d be able to summon a reaction and tell him exactly what I think of him—and drive a blade into his heart.
Hisis the only blood I’ll let myself hunger for now.
