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“So is shouting,” Eivor murmurs under his breath.

“I hate when you’re right.” Carver slams a door. “Shouting does add a certain flair, though.”

I release Risna’s foot long enough to pinch between my brows. Pain radiates through me at the movement. Those fucking hunters and their silver. I glance at the wound on my wrist. It’s red and angry and festering. Fuck.

“Why exactly haven’t we gone back for her?” Risna asks, sitting up and drawing her lithe legs to her chest. “By the way she fought to help you, it’s obvious she wanted to leave.”

My heart gives an irksome twinge at that. “Because the entire perimeter is on lockdown and any element of surprise is long gone. I need to think of another way.”

“That does sound pretty difficult for those who aren’t the Mors Soluta,” Carver says, entering the living room with a basket of folded clothes on his hip. He glances at Eivor. “You don’t have to keep trying, Ei. Julian enchanted the glass so it could never be replicated.” His brow knits together as he adds, “He was overwhelmingly egocentric in that regard.”

Eivor sighs and gathers the shards into a motley rainbow of color.

Beside me, Risna picks her book back up and thumbs to where she left off. “Regardless of what forces they have at their disposal, you can’t just let her die, Quill.”

“I’m not going to let her die. I’m⁠—”

Eivor interrupts with a scoff, shooting a frustrated look in my direction. “You are licking your wounds and sulking that your plan didn’t go right the first time. She’s your mate.”

“What would the three of you have me do?” I say vehemently. “Show up at the rite with no plan, already weakened from silver poisoning, and snatch her from the altar?”

“If your wounds are what is stopping us from going to her now, I can fetch you mortal blood so you can heal?” Eivor offers, frowning. “It is a risk, but⁠—”

“No.” I shake my head, adamant. “I cannot risk triggering the affliction. Not now.”

Bloodlust. A rare and dangerous disease that makes a vampire unstable and unpredictable and exceptionally dangerous. Mortals who’ve fallen victim to a vampire with Bloodlust end up in pieces, ripped apart in a red-tinged frenzy. I’d learned very late in my second life that Godrick suffered from the affliction, and the moment I did, I gave up mortal blood just in case he passed it on and the disease lay dormant in me. Every time I drink from a mortal, there’s a chance the affliction will consume me. It’s not worth the risk.

“You all mock me for my silly romance novels, and yet the heroes in these stories would stop at nothing to protect their beloved. It doesn’t matter if it’s dangerous or if the risks involved are high.” Risna’s eyes meet mine over the pages’ edges. “As Eivor says, she is your mate, a bond unlike anything else in this vast world, and you’re just going to wait around until you come up with a plan to rescue her?” She tuts and turns the page. “That’s not the Quill I’ve spent the better part of my second life knowing.”

My heart clenches.

Carver whistles as he sets down the basket. “She has a point.”

“Of course I do,” Risna says as Eivor says, “Of course she does.”

Risna winks at her childe before she turns another page. “So, are you a hero or a monster, Quill?”

If following a delicate thread of desire means you’re a monster, then I’m a monster too.

“You do realize crashing the rite is a death wish?” I ask, even though a plan is already stirring in the back of my mind.

“We saved your sorry ass last night, did we not?” Carver crouches in front of the shards as an enchanted broom and dust pan flit into the room to clean up the glass. “Two dozen hunters and only eight or so dead?”

Risna grinned. “Plan or no plan, the Mors Soluta is going to pay the rite a little visit.”

I take in the willing, concerned faces of my kindred. What have I done in this life or the last to deserve such loyalty?

My throat is thick with gratitude. “You’d all…”

“We are your kindred,” Eivor says, rising to his booted feet. “Where you go, we follow.”

Risna worms her toes under my thigh. “I’m only requesting a year’s worth of competent foot rubs for the effort.”

“I’d also like to formally request a new window,” says Carver, not unkindly, from where he fusses with stretching a canvas over the gaping hole left in Cress’s wake. “And for my house to be completely off limits to all vampiric sex, besides my own, for the next century.”

“Boo,” Risna jests.

I glance at Eivor. “And you, brother?”