Page 24

I roll over and bury my face under the cool side of my pillow. I don’t remember falling asleep, but since I did, I surely do not want to be woken so soon. Warm breath against my cheek lulls me back into sleep’s comforting embrace when the incessant knocking comes again.

“Vivvy,” I grumble. “Five more minutes, please.”

A deep chuckle.

I shoot straight up in bed. That is not Viv’s laugh or my father’s. Nor is it Brutus’s or any of the other guards who take shifts outside my door.

“It’s the witching hour,” Quill murmurs. “And I am left waiting.”

I fall out of bed, bare legs tangled in my sheets, and hit the floor with a swear. I lay there for an extra breath, waiting for a guard to burst through the door to check on me. No one does.

Popping upright, I quickly fix my hair and swipe any sleep out of my eyes. I do a swift once over of my room for anything embarrassing and zero in on the journal I wrote in until I fell asleep. I definitely don’t need Quill to see that. I snatch it up and head over to the bookshelf. I slide the bookshelf away from the wall and peel back the curling wallpaper to reveal a section of the wall that has been meticulously carved away over the years. The cubby is dark, but I make out the general shape of a crate before I set my journal in it, readjust the wallpaper, and slide the bookshelf back into place.

Nervously, I pad across the quiet of my bedroom. The dozens of candles I lit to keep me awake have burned to a stub. Cold seeps through Quill’s thick, wool socks as I inch around spots notorious for creaking. Before I reach the terrace doors, I snag a throw blanket from a chaise and wrap its cozy fleece around my shoulders.

As if I summoned him from my dreams, Quill waits, long-legged and lean and drop-dead gorgeous, on the other side of the panes. I wet my lips as I wrench the doors open without fear. Asking him here may have been foolish, but I’m not planting wildflower seeds and expecting roses. He cannot come inside unless explicitly invited.

“You came,” I say, air puffing in front of me from the cold.

“You asked me to.” His words are soft, melodic. He reaches for me, but I take a step back. His hand stills and presses flat against an invisible barrier. “What can I do for you?”

Pulling the blanket tighter around me, I tell him, “You can start with the truth.”

“The truth about what?” He leans against the doorframe, draping an arm casually above his head. “How delicious you smell when ripe with desire?”

I ignore that particular piece of information and ask, “Did you know who I was when you came to Gild the Lily?”

“Yes.”

A blade of disappointment drives its tip into my chest.

“Were you sent to kill me?”

“Also yes.”

His confirmation thrusts the blade deeper.

“Does that… change things?” he asks nervously. He rubs the back of his neck. “Do you fear me now that you know the truth?”

I should.

But… I don’t.

My fight or flight instinct hasn’t kicked in yet as I gnaw on my bottom lip, wondering what in the five kingdoms stopped him earlier from snapping my neck or draining me dry.

“You had the chance to kill me,” I start, “but you didn’t. Why? I was born to be your ruination, and yet you let me live. You entertained my every whim, you fucked me, and you let me live.”

“You may have been born to be my ruination, Rory Alarie,” he whispers harshly, “but I was Made to be your salvation.”

“What does that even mean?” I rub my eyes, exasperated. “What’s your plan now? End my life and leave my body for the hunters to find in the morning?”

“I don’t have a plan,” he says flatly. “I… I’m not going to kill you, either.”

“Well, isn’t that a relief,” I snap.

My hands tremble as I fist the blanket. Asking him to meet me tonight was a mistake.

“You should go.” I have to force the words loose. The wallpapered walls of my childhood bedroom are wafer thin, and this conversation has confirmed everything I suspected. “If the hunters hear you—if they discover you—they’ll torture you and kill you.”