Page 138 of A Thief Among Fae

Seconds pass. Ten, then twenty. Thirty. I don’t hear him resurface.

A bang shakes the grate. I grip it with my magic, using it as leverage to force my body to flip so my chest is pressed against the bars.

Desmond’s body is a dark shape beneath the surface, unmoving, every limb pinned by the current. His head lolls to the side, unconscious.

A desperate scream claws up my throat. I have to grab him, pull him above the water before we run out of air and⁠—

No. If we can’t turn the final wheel, it won’t matter that he’s not breathing now. We’ll both still drown.

My magic pulses through the water, finding the wheels on his side even though I can’t see them. It travels like unseeing hands down the large wheel, then the middle, and finally the smallest. As hard as I try to feel the dip of the carved runes in the stone, I can’t. I’ll have to turn the wheel until the water stops.

Cold—so cold it burns. My breath is sharp, hard to control. The wheel feels heavier with every turn, like the stone itself is resisting me.

Please let this be the only wheel we’ve made a mistake on.

A third turn. A fourth.

I run out of air as the wave crashes against the ceiling. The water hits my face like a blade, and my lungs burn. My body yearns to give in—to let go and let the numbness take me.

For Evie. For Desmond. We will not die today.

One more push.

A loud click vibrates through the water. Then the slats beneath us open, unleashing a current I can’t fight. The water roars, dragging us with it like we’re nothing more than debris. Our bodies are helplessly pinned as the freezing water drains.

Then my mouth finds air. I gasp, then cough so hard it feels like my lungs want to escape my body, water spitting from between my quivering lips. I roll onto my side, then stare wide-eyed as the grate separating us retracts into a slit across the ceiling.

Desmond.

His fingers are blue, and he’s still not breathing.

I rush to his side, my whole body shaking as I place both hands on his chest and push. The cold has made me weak, but I desperately push again, every second I count choking me with fear.

I press my lips to his, so soft and cold, and pinch his nose to breathe into his mouth. He doesn’t stir. I pull back for more compressions, then seal my mouth against his again.

If only I were a water-wielder. I could easily pull the water out of his lungs. If only I weren’t born with untethering. If only the gods had pitied me.

Desmond jolts, and I scramble back as he sits up, coughing and gasping, a man back from the grave.

“You’re alive,” I rasp, then throw my arms around him and squeeze.

He looks at me, relief shining in his eyes as a tear rolls down his cheek. His hands shake as he caresses my face, seeking proof I’m really here.

“We did it,” I tell him. “We survived.”

His blue lips quiver as a laugh trembles through him. “Cynthia,” he says so softly, like a prayer to the heavens.

Then he kisses me.

Chapter 39

The kiss is far from gentle. It’s hungry, our cold lips meeting with fervor like our bodies refuse to believe we’re alive unless we prove it by drowning in the desire between us.

I could melt underneath this kiss, our wet clothes be damned. For one heavenly moment, I forget the tomb, the danger, everything except Desmond kissing me.

He cradles my cheek, then threads his other hand into my damp hair, making me moan into him. He stiffens for a heartbeat, as if he’s savoring the sound. Then his tongue licks mine, tasting me like he’ll never have another chance.

My body trembles, first from lust, then an uncontrollable chill that I feel down to my bones.