The blood drains from my face so fast my head spins, forcing me to grip hold of a nearby table. Or perhaps the bottle of alcohol just hit me all at once. Either way, I feel like I’m going to throw up for the fifth time since the sun sank, and all over Graves’s freshly mopped floorboards.
“There was a bloke in here not three days ago boasting about a meeting with Madame Strings. Something to do with replacing a runner who contracted the Blight.” He raises his bushy brows, gaze steady.“But you didn’t hear it from me.”
“When?”
“Not tomorrow night but the next, if my ears served me well. And they usually do.”
I stretch my hands, then bunch them up, that monstrous rage sitting inside my chest surging to savage life. “Do you know where he lives?”
With a clipped nod, Graves reaches for a stack of parchment beside the till, and I approach as he scratches something upon the top sheet with a sharpened piece of coal. “You’ll want to ditch that black cloak, son,” he says, looking at me from beneath his brows while he folds the parchment and slides it across the bar.
“I’m good,” I mumble, then pocket the note and flick up my hood. “This one’s important to me.”
He releases a deep sigh.
“Wait here,” he grumbles. Muttering something about a death wish, he disappears through the back door that swings to a creaking halt behind him.
I glance down at myself, frowning.
Clearing my throat, I unclip the cloak, then reluctantly drape it across the bar, still rubbing the material between my fingers when Graves returns—a thick, Bahari-blue velvet bundle in his arms. “I only have a winter one, but it’ll do.”
“My balls are sweaty just looking at it.”
He makes a sound somewhere between a chuff and a grunt. “I’ll look after your other one until you return.”
“I appreciate that,” I mutter, reaching for the cloak, but he holds tight.
I meet his cutting stare riddled with warning. “You take care now, you hear?”
My skin erupts in a blast of goose bumps.
He gives me a tight nod, then lets go, picks up the rubbish bin, and carries it out back, leaving me alone with the hungry silence.
Dragging my gaze across my black cloak, I resist the urge to snatch it, gritting my teeth as I wrap the blue one around my shoulders, then head for the door, about to shove it open when I catch a whiff of wildflowers pinched with a hint of spice.
My heart jumps into my throat so fast I choke on a breath.
Laith …
Head whipping around, I power toward the staircase, bunched fists swinging at my sides, kicking to a stop the moment my boot hits the bottom step. Breath labors in and out of my aching lungs, and a fresh swirl of nausea whisks my guts as I try to picture how I’ll greet her.
What I’ll say.
Whether I’ll wrap her in my arms, tell her it’s going to be okay, even though it’s not, and squeeze her until she stops fighting me.
Fightingherself.
Or if I’ll cut my instincts loose and charge her until she slams against the wall, then rally upon her with all my wrath, sorrow, and bitter disappointment. Let her see the fierce side of our nature in its full, unguarded glory.
Fuck knows she needs it.
Another beat, and I swallow the growl trying to erupt, looking at my boots.
If I go up there, I’ll tell her truths that’ll cut to the bone. I’ll spit them like shrapnel because I’m not feeling nice right now.
I’m feeling wrought and raw and mad at the world—mad ather. Maybe even a wee bit drunk. And she deserves better than that. She may have made a devastating mistake, but I still fucking love her.
Snarling, I punch the wall, storm toward the exit, and charge into the night.
