Page 115 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

That realization had his eyes slipping closed. His shoulders dropping as her breathing stilled and he reminded himself of their reality.

Roremar held Emmeline to his chest, memorizing every perfectly timed beat of their hearts and wringing every bit of longing from his soul. It felt like too much for one body, but he took it.

Fates, he fucking took it.

As their heart rates calmed, the whistling returned. Roremar tried to peer around the winged statue, but the thing was so large, nothing was visible.

They waited until the visitor left again, then waited even longer, Emmeline tangled in his arms, only their shallow breaths filling the silence.

It took Roremar longer than it should have to compose himself, but Emmeline wanted to wait until they knew the threat was gone rather than try to sneak out, and he wasn’t about to push her away.

She tried to tap into her Fate ties to get any information about the intruder or where they went, but, of course, the celestial beings shared nothing but trivial comments now. Fucking helpful fortune tellers they were.

“We should go,” she finally whispered, her hands still knotted in his tunic.

“We should.”

Neither of them moved. Roremar barely dared to breathe.

He didn’t think she was breathing either, like neither of them wanted to shatter this moment.

Emmeline looked up at him, chin resting on his chest, and cautiously, Roremar brushed his knuckles along her cheek. Traced her jawline, pressed his thumb to her bottom lip where those teeth loved to burrow and thought about how she’d shuddered against him as she fell apart.

“Come on, Huntress,” he finally whispered, placing a kiss to her forehead because it was the most he could have. “Let’s get you home.”

Emmeline wrinkled her nose but disentangled herself from him and cautiously ducked around the winged statue. “I think I’m the one getting you home given that you have to sneak into the barracks.”

“By all means, Miss DeLeoste”—he laughed softly, tiredly—“escort me.”

And as they silently crept back through the network of tunnels buried beneath the city, Roremar couldn’t help but feel that they were leaving something instrumental behind. But he stitched a vow into his soul: He would prove to Emmeline they could be more than this. More than hidden moments or longing looks.

He would prove to Emmeline DeLeoste how good they could be together. No matter what it took.

They stuck to the tunnel they’d originally taken, retracing their steps up to the mausoleum in silence. Roremar’s attention remained piqued for any shift or shuffle, but he didn’t even feel eyes following them.

He ensured the staircase descending to the catacombs was hidden beneath Valyrie’s fresco again, the ancient wooden doors sealed shut and brushed away any disruptions in the dirt from their footsteps and the door sweeping open.

He did everything to guarantee the structure looked as untouched as ever, triple checking before he followed Emmeline beneath the canopy of woven branches and back through the rainy graveyard.

He’d just climbed over the slippery gates, hands on Emmeline’s waist to take any excuse to touch her as she descended, when he felt it.

A shift on the wind, a cackle echoing through his memory.

Roremar spun, but assailants came from all directions, rain whipping around and morphing the blue-tinged mystlights.

Hands wrenched Emmeline from the iron fence, and a broad boot kicked him in the stomach.

He stumbled back, the metal bars ringing as he fell against them. A sharp pinch shot through his side, but he didn’t allow himself to focus on it. He shoved upright, head spinning, and threw all his body weight at his attacker.

Searing pain bloomed across his ribs, but Roremar tackled the man to the slick cobblestones and staggered back. Two masked warriors—one feminine in stature and one taller and broader than him—were dragging Emmeline toward the grapevines.

“Get your fucking hands off her!” Roremar lunged, but the piercing sting in his side had him collapsing, hands groping at a sticky mess along his ribs.

“Fucking Fates,” he grunted.

He’d been stabbed.

A small knife no bigger than his palm was lodged between his ribs, pain spiderwebbing out from it. His vision was already bleeding together.