Taking the knife, Lord Chauvlyn gripped her wrist with his other hand. Instead of slicing her palm, he twisted her arm and, before she could make more than a noise in the back of her throat, he swiped the knife across the top of her forearm. At her look, he huffed. “Trust me. A wound there will be much less annoying than having your hand out of commission.”
That was strangely considerate of him.
Even more strangely, he handed the knife back to her without so much as a token protest.
After stuffing the knife back into her pocket, she touched her fingers to the throbbing cut on her other arm and reached forward into the edge of the rift. Pain flared through her hand, clawing far deeper than the mild cut Lord Chauvlyn had given her. Gritting her teeth, she smeared her blood over the doorpost. This had better work.
She had to do it again and again until the rift finally started to constrict and waver, tearing away from the posts until she could see into the bare room beyond. After disentangling the iron rod from her sash, she gripped it in two hands and whacked it into the doorposts and lintel at the places where the rift still clung to the frame.
The rift shrank, but a large, swirling spot of it remained centered in the doorway, fully disconnected from the door itself.
“It’s free, I think.” Beatrice frowned at the remaining piece of the rift, which didn’t seem to be shrinking. “But it’s not going away entirely.”
“This would be the moment when a kiss would be advisable,” Lord Chauvlyn drawled, his arms now crossed, his shoulder still propped against the wall.
Beatrice swallowed wrong, choked, and burst into coughing to try to clear her own saliva from her lungs. Even as she coughed, she turned to look at Benedict.
Benedict had stumbled back, his sword going slack in his hand. He gaped between Lord Chauvlyn and Beatrice. “I…uh…”
Lord Chauvlyn gestured between them. “It has to be the two of you. Unless you want me to kiss her, and I doubt that would have the same effect.”
Benedict took a step closer, his sword lowering further.
She sucked in a breath, finally getting her coughing under control. She faced him, easing a step closer as well. She barely had the sense to ensure that her goblin woman glamour was back into place. Those from the Court of Knowledge might still guess the truth of her identity, but Nick was sobbing with his ears over his eyes, Domitius was hiding behind several of the women, the swordmaiden was busy fighting, and Demetrius knew the truth anyway.
Kiss Benedict. A month ago, such a thing would have been unthinkable. She would have kissed a giant talking snail before kissing him.
But now? Now her pulse thumped harder in her ears. Her palms grew sweaty, her fingers slippery on the iron rod still in her hand. Nor was it fear that prompted such sensations but an almost aching anticipation that stole her breath and froze her where she stood.
He halted before her, close enough for their breaths to mingle even if he didn’t yet touch her. “If you wish to protest…”
“No.” Her voice was a whisper, barely audible amid all the shouts and clangs of battle going on beyond Benedict. “Why would I wish to protest?”
“I just want to make sure…” Benedict lightly rested his hand on her waist.
“Just kiss already.” Lord Chauvlyn’s tone had gone sharp and slightly nasally.
Beatrice started just as Benedict leaned down, and then his lips were on hers, his hand on the small of her back, pressing her closer.
Then she was too busy kissing Benedict—too wrapped up in the new sensations of her first kiss—to pay any attention to anyone or anything else.
Her first kiss. Her toes curled. Her fingers somehow found their way to fisting in the front of Benedict’s shirt.
This. This was just what she imagined her first kiss would be like. Funny how she wasn’t even disappointed that it was with Benedict. Instead, she couldn’t imagine kissing anyone else.
“The rift is gone.” Was that a trace of humor in Lord Chauvlyn’s voice? No, surely not. It must simply be scorn.
Beatrice jumped at the interruption, and Benedict pulled away, his hand falling away from her waist even as he turned away with a cough.
Right. They were supposed to be escaping. Not kissing.
When she glanced over her shoulder, the door was nothing but a regular doorway into a small room with stone walls and a stone floor. Probably a storage cellar of some kind. Perhaps for faerie wine, though it was empty now. Only the smears of her blood, dark as it soaked into the wood, gave any sign that anything untoward had happened there.
The rush of fae guards down the stairs seemed to have stopped. To one side, the two swordmaidens had piled the dead while those they’d managed to incapacitate and capture were in another pile. The rest of the escaped prisoners huddled against the other wall.
As Ariadne led the way up the stairs with the other swordmaiden chivying the rest to follow, Beatrice reached into her pocket, pulled out one of the tiny red primroses, and dropped it on the floor in the doorway.
Then she headed for the stairs. As she placed her foot on the bottom stair, she turned, looking over her shoulder at where Lord Chauvlyn remained leaning against the wall. “Are you coming? You can, you know.”
