Lady Scall nodded, once, and visibly squared her shoulders, and met Rosa’s eyes.
“I agree,” she said. “Now, tell me what you need.”
35
Aweek later, Rosa unlocked the door of the Dusbury Library, and stepped inside.
She wore an old but well-made dress — a castoff from one of Lady Scall’s nieces — and clutched a stack of crisp papers to her chest. And her heart was thumping loudly and erratically, her gaze darting around at the familiar stacks, searching for any sign of movement or voices or breath —
But there was only silence. She was alone. For now.
Rosa sagged back against the closed door, shutting her eyes, clutching her papers tighter. It was her first time stepping foot into the library since her return to Dusbury — in fact, her first time out in public — but today was the day. Her three-week deadline had finally arrived, and today was when Lord Kaspar had promised to return.
And if Lady Scall’s sources were correct, Lord Kaspar had indeed ridden into town just the night before. And soon, surely, he would come.
Rosa shoved her shaky form off the door, toward the familiar lending desk. Toward where — she froze, blinking — her stack of orc research still sat, unmoved. Untouched. As if it had been awaiting her return, all this time.
The memories swarmed with sudden, vicious force, trampling past her eyes. John’s sharp finger, dragging down the edge of the stack. His eyes, as he’d torn her dress down the middle, and thrown her onto this very desk. His voice, as he’d said all those words, those threats, thosepromises.
We mark you. With our claws, our teeth, our scent. We make you ours.Forever.
Rosa’s eyes were prickling, for what felt like the thousandth time that week, and she squeezed them shut, fought to draw in breath. She’d stayed in regular contact with Tristan these past days, by means of a basket hidden in Lady Scall’s garden — but there hadn’t been a single mention of John in Tristan’s letters, let alone any word from John himself. Even as the truth of what they’d made inside Rosa had begun to grow stronger and surer each day, between the quiet constant nausea, her increasingly tender breasts, and the unfamiliar hardness low in her belly.
Rosa’s only foolish, desperate hope, of all things, had been the milk. The sweet, distinctive milk John had so consistently given her at the mountain, and which had continued to appear in their secret basket each morning. Hinting, perhaps, that John was arranging for them. Perhaps, somehow, he still cared.
But the more Rosa had ruminated over it these past days, the more despondent she’d become. She’d lied to John, again and again. She’d taken advantage of his hospitality and kindness. She’d had the audacity to castigate him for not sharing all his secrets, when she’d gone to his home with the express purpose of starting awar.
And at this point, all she could do was try. She could show John that she cared. She could do everything within her power to make amends for what she’d done.
Which meant — Rosa looked around at the library, and drew in another bracing breath — she could face the truth. She could face Lord Kaspar.
She set her new pile of papers neatly on the lending desk, squaring off the edges, squaring her shoulders. She’d worked with an almost manic intensity this week, frantically writing and revising, pouring as much fervent persuasive truth into her words as she possibly could. She had a plan. This was her chance.
But suddenly — Rosa’s head snapped up, her body struck still — there was a sound. A small, barely perceptible sound, from the back of the library. A sound like — like apage turning.
The fear stuttered and choked, Rosa’s hands gripping desperately at the desk, because maybe — surely — it was Lord Kaspar. Lord Kaspar, already here, back in his little room, waiting for her. Perhaps even reading in bed, undressed, expecting her to come in, climb aboard, and —
Rosa had to clamp her hand over her mouth, drag in deep lungfuls of air, fight back the surging nausea. She could do this. She could face this.
She grasped for her stack of papers again, and then forced herself to step out from behind the desk, and down the aisle between the stacks. Step, after step, closer, closer, while the fear and the dread scraped and screamed —
But when she turned around the last shelf, it was like the world had skidded to a halt, teetering on a cliff-edge. Because itwasn’tLord Kaspar.
It was an orc. In the library. Reading.
It wasJohn.
36
For a long, faltering moment, Rosa couldn’t move, breathe,think. John washere. In thelibrary. Reading abook.
His dark head was bent over the book, his face hidden in shadow — but as Rosa stared, frozen, he slowly lifted his head, and met her eyes. Looking unusually tired, with deep smudges under those eyes, faint lines around his mouth, an even sharper cut to his jaw and cheekbones. And his clawed hands closing the book, setting it aside, didn’t bother to keep his place, as though he hadn’t really been reading it at all.
Rosa’s stomach was dangerously lurching, dragging her unsteady hand down to press against her waist — a movement that drew those eyes downward, too. Almost as if they could see through the papers she was still gripping, through her clothes and her very skin, to what was hidden beneath.
To theirson.
John’s gaze felt almost agonizing, suddenly, and Rosa clutched both hands back to her papers, and hauled in a shaky, stilted breath. John was here. John washere, good gods, she could say something,something—
