Page 128 of Burn of the Everflame

She laughed. “Luther and I made our peace. You told me that he was your future and that I needed to accept him to be part of it.” She leaned forward. “Is that no longer the case?”

Again, my eyes dropped away. That question had no easy answer.

“Diem,” she said gently, “if you need someone to talk to⁠—”

“You loved Ophiucae,” I blurted out. “The spell that set him free . . . it required a child conceived in love.”

It came out like an accusation. She gave a slow nod. “I suppose I did, in the way all young people love the first person they fall for. There was little he could do for me, chained in a cell, but was always making small gestures to show he cared. And when he spoke of the future he wanted for Emarion, it was a good one. A fair, peaceful world. Of course, he only saw himself as its leader . . .”

“That was only twenty years ago. If you saw good in him then, surely there’s still hope for him now.”

My voice sounded childish and desperate, and I despised the pity that flooded her eyes. “He’s done terrible things, Diem. He’s murdered so many.”

“Vance and his men did that. Ophiucae only lent his shield to protect them.”

“Ophiucae is their leader.”

My temper cracked. “You were the Guardians’ leader when they bombed the Meros ports. By the Flames, Mother, you lit the fuse that killed the Montios King. Shall I sentence you to execution?”

She flinched at the comparison. “I do believe in redemption. There are many Descended I swore to kill if I ever came within blade’s reach. Today I sat across from twenty of them, and I forced myself to let go of vengeance for the good of the realm.”

I tensed, sensing what came next. “But?”

“Hatred is a poison. As healers, we know all poisons have a point of no return. Some people cannot be saved.” She shook her head sadly. “I don’t want to see your heart broken if Ophiucae is one of them.”

Angry defiance rose up within me. I’d pulled Luther back from the furthest edge of an incurable poison. Why couldn’t I do the same for my sire?

As if Luther had heard my thoughts, the ballroom doors opened again, and he stalked in. With my back to the door, I couldn’t see him, nor could I feel his aura due to the bronze cuffs still on my wrists, but I knew. The bond was my very own Meros compass, with its insatiable pull.

“I’m glad you’re here,” my mother said to him. “There’s something I need to tell you both. A hawk arrived from my contact in the north. Ophiucae’s army needs more godstone weapons, and they’ve heard there’s a secret stockpile in the Fortos armory. They’re planning another attack there in three days’ time.”

“We’ll be ready,” Luther said. “I’ll speak with Alixe. We’ll bring all the reinforcements we can spare.”

My mother nodded. “I’ll do the same with the Guardians. With any luck, we can stop him before things get worse.” She patted my hand and stood. “I’ll give you two some privacy.”

She left, and my pulse quickened. Being alone with Luther was a risky game, one I craved and feared with equal passion.

He took her chair and moved it directly next to mine, turning it the opposite direction. He let out a long exhale as he lounged back and stretched his legs.

“Did Doriel and Obaneryn leave?” I asked him.

“They did. I sent Tybold to make sure their boat doesn’t turn back.”

That was unexpected. Tybold nearly roasted Luther alive last night. Now he was obeying Luther’s command?

“My mother said people were searching for me.”

“I told them I’d find you.” He closed his eyes. “I’m still looking.”

He set his forearm on the armrest, his knuckles a hair from my skin. I told my arm to pull away. It moved a little closer.

“Luther, what you did at the meeting today⁠—”

His fingers wrapped around my arm, just above my elbow. His touch was tender but firm enough to render me silent. My lungs went breathless, warm lightning crackling through my blood.

With his eyes closed and no one around, I took the chance to study him. He’d been dressing differently lately. Looser cuts, plainer fabrics. Still elegantly tailored—this was Luther Corbois, after all—but if it wasn’t for the jeweled sword on his back, no one would guess him a privileged Prince. Most shocking was the way he’d taken to leaving his shirts undone so the fabric hung open to reveal his chest, scar and all. In another man, I might have found it vain. In Luther, I saw it for the hard-won victory of self-acceptance it was.

My gaze fell to the circular scar over his heart. The untouched skin at its center provoked a tempest of emotions. Joy, that he no longer hid his scars. A twinge of jealousy that I could not display my mating mark with equal pride. And love—so much love.