Page 47 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“What’s wrong?” Roremar cupped her face in his rough palms.

The Chancellor’s words echoed in her memory. I’d keep this conversation between us. You wouldn’t want to be the reason he faces anymore hardship, would you?

Emmeline couldn’t do that to him. Roremar already had so much on his shoulders, more than he likely knew. Emmeline cared too deeply about him to add another burden.

He swept his thumbs across her cheekbones, waiting for her response, and she knew with each gentle touch—knew as his omniscient stare assessed her—she had to shut down her emotions before Rocarri’s threats came bleeding out.

All the longing and desire, every part of her that screamed for him, she had to tuck it all away into that lonely hollow in her chest if she wanted to get him through this tournament unscathed.

No matter how deeply it broke her.

She forced a smile. “Nothing.”

“Don’t start lying now, Huntress,” Roremar challenged.

He was seeing too much. He always saw too much. Emmeline was glass in his hands, a thin sheet so delicate and transparent.

She had to do better. She had to lie better. At least until she could fix all of this for him.

But right now, she needed to focus on the pain and grief in his eyes. Then on getting them out of this room before someone found out where they were, because he certainly must have guards looking for him.

Emmeline shook her head, forcing her jaw to keep from wobbling. “Nothing’s wrong, Reckless.” Her heart fractured. “It’s been a long day. How are you? How are you here?”

“I was brought here on a cargo ship, but I thought you could fill me in on the rest.” He spoke so gently, you’d never know he was the warrior who tore through men to reach her only hours ago.

Hearing him confirm he’d been kept so in the dark about his own fate fueled the desperate fire within her.

She had to save him, even if it meant giving up every last part of herself.

She had to save him, even if it meant staying away.

Emmeline blew out a breath, taking Roremar’s hand from her cheek and walking to the settee. “Even I don’t know all the details. The soon-to-be Chancellor—Balmour Rocarri—is recreating an event Valyrie hosted thousands of years ago. A tournament. There are to be three trials.”

“A tournament,” Roremar repeated, sitting beside her.

“They call it Valyrie’s Races. It’s the first since the Angel herself, and the Chancellor is using it to build morale and unify the clan. Even if it’s resulting in the deaths of dozens of warriors.” She tacked on the last part as an afterthought, distaste bitter on her tongue. “They haven’t revealed what the other two challenges are, but…you saw how the first went.”

Roremar’s eyes flicked between hers, and she could practically see understanding crash over him in bloodstained waves. He scoffed, leaning against the cushions and dragging a hand through his dark hair, the ink on his forearm flexing with the motion. “Those fucking cowards couldn’t execute me themselves?”

“District Governors are afraid to kill someone with such a rare Fate tie. If you die, they want it to be the will of the Fates.”

Emmeline shifted, their thighs pressing together. She inhaled at the contact, but she pulled back, needing to force distance between them.

“I’m going to get you out of this,” Emmeline swore as Roremar dropped a hand to her leg.

He dragged his thumb over her knee, skin heating even through her leathers. “How?”

“I—I don’t know yet.” Emmeline’s voice was raspy, distracted by his touch. “But I am. I swear it.”

He saved her back on Lyra. Now she would do the same.

“Huntress…”

There was such a defeated look in his eye that without thinking, Emmeline blurted, “I’m living at the Chancellor’s manor. I’m going to get closer to his advisors and prove your innocence.”

Roremar’s eyes narrowed. He asked his next question like he’d already deduced the answer. “Aren’t you here for Valyn Temple Academy?”

Emmeline bit her lip, and Roremar’s gaze flashed down to it. The air between them charged.