The bruise on her cheek and split lip shine under the light. Something burns in my gut to see her injured. It’s nothing new when it comes to Maeve. I’ve healed more cuts than I can count. Stitched up a few deep wounds, too. But I hate it all the same.
She’s a pain in my ass, but only one person should be marking her.Me.
“Rough night?”
She gives me a flat look. “No. Why?”
I flick her nose, and she slaps my hand away. “Someone got a few hits in.”
Gingerly, she prods her lips. It’s still wet with blood, so whatever happened wasn’t long ago.
“Going to tell me about it?”
She rolls her eyes and looks away. I didn’t expect her to answer. She never tells me where the marks come from—I assume from missions. Or fights. Maeve has a nasty temper and is known to pick one late at night to work out aggression.
But I always ask. Always hope she’ll confide in me and stophiding.
I shouldn’t care—we’re not friends. Fuck, we’ve never said a nice thing to each other in the five years I’ve been in her life. But there’s a flicker of hope that one day she’ll see the same darkness she carries is in me, and she’ll let me help.
Scoffing under my breath, I turn away from her. Stupid, really. Maeve doesn’t need help. She never has. Yet, I feel pulled to her, the moon and the sun, stuck in this orbit that won’t end.
My mark walks down the street a few moments later, huddled into his coat with the collar covering his ears. The wind blows again, and he curses, hurrying to the corner grocer.
“He gave you a mark,” she murmurs, following my gaze. Glaring down at the smaller girl, I swat her hair into her face.
“Shouldn’t you be home?” I look around. “You weren’t supposed to be on a meet tonight.”
“I’m always out,” she drawls. Another breeze steals our breath, and she turns, burying her head into my shoulder to hide from the cold.
Her scent—violet, orchids, and juniper—wraps around me like a damn noose.
I shake her off. “Where’s your prince? Isn’t he always following you around?”
The burn of jealousy is a bitch, but I shove it back down. I’m not jealous of that fucking kid—Bruno’s illegitimate son who looks too damn much like the woman I helped die—but maybe I’m jealous of their bond. Of the way he gets to see pieces she hides from me.
I’ve been here longer than him. I’ve known Maeve longer. I’ve healed those wounds that magically appear late at night. If anyone should see those pieces, it should beme.
This ridiculous itch of wanting more from her is starting to really fucking annoy me.
“He’s home,” she answers, crossing her arms. “Who is he?”
“Don’t know.”
“What’d he do?”
“Don’t know.”
“Is he with a rival family?”
“Don’t.Know.”
His eyes glint like uncut emeralds. “Do you knowanything?”
“Nope,” I say, popping thep. “Just the end goal.”
She stills, squinting up at me. I’m a good foot or so taller than her, but that doesn’t matter to Maeve. She sizes me up as if we’re equal height. Fucking admirable considering most grown men avoid me like the plague.
“It’s a decree,” she breathes. “He’s giving you a decree.”
