Page 93 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

His siblings and his responsibility to them were what he needed to focus on.

This case they were here to solve and the future his uncle would guarantee them all if this was solved. And the stability they risked losing if it wasn’t.

A low laugh sounded behind him, and Roremar met Desmond’s gleaming eyes. “What?”

“You’ve been holding that door for a full thirty seconds since they walked inside.” Desmond clapped him on the shoulder and strode by. “You’re fucked, brother.”

“I’m not,” Roremar grumbled.

You will be her ruin, a cold voice purred into his mind.

Roremar froze, blood icing over.

His eyes locked on Emmeline as she spoke with the innkeeper, her smile warm and welcoming. Her eyes bright—not fiery, like they were when she looked at him, but alive.

Her ruin, the words echoed over her voice, and Roremar saw a flash of Emmeline, bloodied at his feet.

A chilling laugh he knew too well echoed in his head, and guilt shredded his lungs. His fingers tightened on the doorknob.

He could not—would not—allow that to pass. And it wouldn’t if he didn’t give in to the pull toward her. His family—that’s what he was here for.

That’s all it would be.

Roremar had utterly composed himself by the time they left the Hound’s Inn for the Alvan Accords. He was completely and totally relaxed when Emmeline stepped onto the main Promenade, the warm midday sun highlighting her tanned skin. When she tipped her face to the sky to indulge the rays, he swore every eye was on her. And it tied his chest in damn knots.

You will be her ruin.

Maybe Desmond was right. In a slight way, he might be fucked.

Why in a Fate’s fuck had Desmond told Emmeline he was from Alvan, anyway? He never told anyone that. Des always made up excuses for the tattoos that referenced his home, etched in another lifetime. He preferred not to associate with the memories of that past anymore.

Unless, apparently, he was talking to Emmeline DeLeoste, who had a way to make him cave.

“It doesn’t matter,” Roremar grumbled under his breath as he followed the rest of them down the winding street and resolved to focus solely on the task at hand.

The air on Alvan felt different than Lyra. It both buzzed with harsh ambition and hummed with an indulgent lackadaisicalness. Starsearchers poured up and down the winding streets, towering palm trees lining the sides of stores and homes, flowers in blazing shades adorning them.

They climbed up a sloped, cobbled street flooded with murals that Des called Artist Alley. Starsearchers sipped drinks and painted everything from canvases to stones in the very ground, and incense wafted heavily on the air. As they ventured into Warmonger’s Quarter, a collage of pale stone buildings stared down at them. One, the grandest, gleamed brighter than the rest, a worn statue guarding the gates.

“Arenothos,” Desmond explained as they took in the helmeted figure, his face obscured—as was often the case with the Fates—and a hound at his feet. Blades spiked over his back in an arch, a constellation carved into his chest.

Roremar crossed his arms, looking up at the faceless statue. “He looks brutal.”

“He’s the Fate of Wrath and Redemption.” Desmond chuckled. “What do you expect?”

“Not all who worship warfare are coldhearted,” Myrella interjected.

Desmond nodded. “I’d argue he isn’t entirely either. Legend says he had a few great loves, but each chipped away further at his humanity, creating the reputation we now know. The first was when he walked this realm, and it was downhill from there.”

“I’ve read about that,” Emmeline mentioned, and Roremar’s attention swung to her. “The first love was said to be innocent, true passion, and his last was nothing but pure carnal need.” Dammit, Roremar’s blood heated with those words on her lips, his cock straining against his leathers. “It was forbidden and ended in devastation.”

You will be her ruin. He cleared his throat, shifting on his feet to discreetly adjust. “Like many of the Fates’ myths, then.”

Emmeline flicked him a curious glance at the gruff sound of his voice, her rosy cheeks sending satisfaction bleeding through him. Roremar held her stare for a moment but when he smirked, she shook her head and turned back to the others.

“Don’t they say that worshiping Arenothos will incite warfare?” Nico checked, eyeing the statue warily.

Desmond shrugged. “It can. But typically, only specific rituals, and warfare in that sense can mean anything from a household dispute to a stampeding army.” His expression tightened, and Roremar elbowed him, changing the conversation.