Page 62 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

But Caspian… She did not have to explain any of that to Caspian, who wore his own treachery even more openly.

“There’s one for every year I was in contempt of the Lindle crown,” Nore said, drawing her knees to her chest, curving over them, wrapping her arms around herself. She could not hide the scars like this, but he had already seen them. There was no longer any point. “One for every year I was your deceptive, traitorous bride.”

“They rounded up,” he murmured. The fact that that was what he chose to focus on made a small, hysterical laugh bubble up into her throat.

They sat like that for a long time, Nore curved over her own body and Caspian’s hands tracing over the deep, vicious scars. “These are… How did…?”

He didn’t need to finish the question. She knew what they looked like. “Cut. Cauterized. Allowed to start healing, then cut again.”

“How many times?” he asked, his voice icier than the winter sea.

Nore fought past the fog of panic that descended every time she thought of it. “Six. One repetition for every mark. For every year.”

She felt it when he sighed, when he leaned his forehead down, tucked his face into her spine. Perhaps he only allowed this because he knew that she, too, was not fully in her right mind. “Nore,” he said again, and she felt his lips move against her shoulder blade.

“At least I’ll be leaving this world with all parts I arrived with.”

His laugh was gentle, almost like a kiss along her back. “At this rate, we will see.” Another sigh, another moment between them unravelling.

He pulled her against him, her bare back against his chest, his arms tight around her middle. Nore froze for the barest moment before she relaxed against him, melting into the warmth of his chest. Caspian buried his face in her neck.

They did not speak of missions, of missteps, of mistakes that may prove fatal. She closed her eyes and pulled him even closer.

Only now that she felt the full strength of his body did she realize how much he had avoided touching her before—and how long it had been since she had allowed anything like this. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been held. It didn’t help that everything about this was imprinted into her memory: the shape of his arms around her, the smell of him surrounding her body, the feeling of his breath against her neck.

“How did we get here?” Caspian asked, and she wasn’t sure she was supposed to answer. She wasn’t sure there was anything she could say that would satisfy.

“By boat, darling,” Nore said, her voice cracking.

He bit her shoulder. She shivered, imagining the imprint of teeth on her skin. But then he sighed, lessened his hold on her, and the moment was over.

He helped her up, then dressed her in a shift and put her into bed. That night, as sleep drew her in, she gave in to the impulse to seek his warmth. Nore crossed the chasm of the bed and rested her head on Caspian’s chest, listening to the beat of his heart. A moment later, his hand moved; his fingers traced up and down her spine in a familiar pattern. He did not avoid her scars.

“Do you still hate me, Finch?” he asked, so quietly that for the briefest moment, she thought she imagined it.

“Until my dying breath,” Nore murmured against his skin.

before

It was not an easy process, installing Nore as the head of the business, transferring both Miller & Sons and Edith’s spycraft to Nore—especially since it meant keeping even more of her life from Caspian.

Nore was always coming and going now, spending two nights in their flat then traveling to meet clients, barely catching Cas between shifts and then slipping away again for meetings for Edith or further business for Celestine.

She was just back from a too-quick trip to Isbeta while Cas was covering a three-week run, filling in for an injured principal at the theater. Nore slipped into the theater just as the performance was ending, the applause for Cas deafening as she skirted around backstage and then descended into the lower levels, letting herself into his dressing room. He was dancing the role of one of Lindle’s folk characters: the great humble knight who was led by wisdom and honor, who became king and defended Lindan from being vanquished by Marous. She had watched the performance a week before, carving out time before she traveled; like all other times she watched him, he’d filled her with both pride and wonder. Unlike all other times, she found herself… wanting.

Nore went to the mirror on the far wall and lit a couple of thick candles. She saw the marks that Cas used magic when he was here, but she was tired and not up to it. She studied her face in the mirror, leaning against the dressing table, taking in the signs of exhaustion her latest mission had left on her. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and her hair was limp from being jammed under her travel cap.

And then he was behind her.

She caught his gaze in the mirror—she’d not heard him come in, but often, he moved so quietly that she didn’t. He was still dressed for the performance, in a costume reminiscent of armor: the thin, decorative breastplate and pauldrons over nothing, his lower abdomen bare; vambraces over his forearms; the impression of cuisse and greave over the dark hose of his usual performance attire. His hair was damp from exertion, falling over his ears in a tangle of curls. They had not insisted he cut it or tie it back to cover the role. The kohl around his eyes had streaked during the performance, but in the firelight, it only made the intensity of his gaze burn brighter.

“You’re home,” he said, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in her neck. “Gods, I missed you.”

“It’s only been a couple of days,” Nore said, leaning back into him, lifting her chin so he could better reach her throat. Even she knew that wasn’t an excuse. Between the growing demands of Nore’s work and Cas’s shifts, they were always just missing one another.

“And I felt each of them as a blade,” he murmured against her skin.

She leaned up to kiss him, ignoring the seed of guilt that sprouted in her stomach. On some fundamental level, she knew that it would be better, easier, if she told Caspian about the duchess’s little tasks—but also, though Celestine had never spoken the word “spy” herself, Nore knew what she was. What her job entailed. But also, she knew what it would mean if she told Cas. What she could lose.