Page 97 of The Immortal’s Mark

His thumb moves again. Traces the edge of my jaw. His eyes haven’t left mine. “Yes,” he says. His voice is rough. Lower than usual. It’s doing things to my pulse that should probably concern me. “That is going to be complicated.”

From the basket still hanging on my arm, Dumpling yowls.

Of course. Perfect timing. Exactly what this moment needed—an angry cat who’s been jostled one too many times and has decided to express his displeasure vocally.

I step back. Check my surroundings. The market continues around us, oblivious—or politely pretending to be. A few people are definitely looking. None of them seem alarmed, just mildly interested in the way people are always mildly interested in public displays of affection.

“We should go,” I say.

“Yes.”

Neither of us moves.

“Ren.”

“Yes.”

“We should actually go.”

He blinks. Something shifts in his expression—the emperor sliding back into place, the control reasserting itself. But not all the way. There’s a crack now, and I can see something soft underneath.

I don’t look at it too closely. Looking at it too closely feels dangerous.

“The inn,” he says. More to himself than to me. “We should return to the inn.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I was processing.”

“Process faster. We’re making a scene.”

“You are both disasters,” Tianlong observes. “I want this noted for posterity.

”The inn is exactly as we left it—small, clean enough, the kind of place that doesn’t ask questions as long as you pay in advance. Our room is on the second floor, at the end of a narrow hallway that smells like old wood and other people’s cooking. It contains one bed, one basin, one window that looks out over the stable yard, and absolutely no pretense that we’re anything other than exactly what we’re pretending to be.

Married.

The word sits different now.

I set Dumpling’s basket on the floor. He emerges with wounded dignity—the journey has not been kind to his sensibilities—and stalks to the window to judge us from a safe distance. Tianlong emerges from the small brazier pot we’ve been carrying for him, stretching his miniature wings in a way that would be majestic if he weren’t currently the size of a rat.

“Do not,” he says aloud, his voice like wind through ancient trees, “say anything.”

“Wasn’t going to,” I say.

“I can feel you thinking it.”

“Thinking what?”

“That I am small.”

“You are small.”

“I am compact. There is a difference.” He settles on the windowsill, tail curling around his feet, ancient eyes fixed on the darkening sky. “This form is strategic. It allows for discretion.”

“It allows for Dumpling to hunt you.”

“The creature and I have reached an understanding.”