Page 139

She hated how much she wanted to lean back into his warmth. She hated how much she wanted to do it again. She needed a distraction, from him, from his lips.

“Alcaeus,” she forced out. “Tell me he’s alive.”

Lysander’s eyes softened, though his hand lingered at her wrist, thumb brushing once, in measured movements, against the edge of her pulse. He never used his mechanical hand when he wanted to feel her. “Yes. Alive.”

Her chest seized with relief. “Take me to him.”

He hesitated, still close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, the snow melting into dampness on his cloak. His gaze dropped to her lips for a fleeting, dangerous heartbeat, then flicked back to her eyes.

And then, with a low exhale, he released her hand.

Lysander’s exhale hung in the stillness between them. Then he turned, drawing his cloak tighter around him. “We have to move quickly. The Templars double patrols at night. If they catch us near the hospice, neither of us will leave it freely.”

Her knees still wobbled, but she refused to let him see the weakness. “Lead, then.”

He reached for the door, then paused, his hand hovering there. Without looking back, he murmured, “Stay close. No matter what.”

The words brushed along her skin like a touch, sparking down her spine.

They slipped into the night. The snow muffled most sound, but every crunch of their boots set her nerves on edge. The air was sharp enough to bite, the sky heavy with clouds that smothered the stars.

When they approached the edge of the square, he lifted a hand to halt her, then pulled her into the shelter of a half-collapsed shed. His body was close, his breath warm where it ghosted against her temple.

“Two of them,” he whispered, eyes flicking to the patrolling Templars. “Wait until they pass.”

She nodded, though his chest against her shoulder made it hard to focus on anything but the hammering of her own heart.

When the Templars passed, Lysander’s hand lingered a fraction longer at her waist before pulling away. “Come,” he said, too low, too rough.

He guided her without hesitation, his palm grazing her back to steady her when she stumbled over icy ruts.

“You’ve done this before,” she muttered.

“I never liked staying still for long,” he replied, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

She smiled in return, but then the ache in her ribs flared, reminding her why they risked all this. “How bad is he?” she asked, voice tightening.

Lysander didn’t answer immediately. He vaulted a low fence, then offered her his hand. She hesitated only a moment before taking it. His grip was firm, steadying, warmer than it should've been in the winter night.

“Bad,” he said, once she’d landed beside him. His thumb brushed across her knuckles before he let go. “He’s holding on, but … the poison’s stubborn. Kitsa has tried everything she knows.”

Her throat constricted. “Then he needs me.”

“He needs you alive,” Lysander replied. His gaze locked on hers in the dim. “Don’t burn yourself away trying to save him.”

She didn’t answer, couldn’t.

They reached the hospice, an old stone outbuilding at the edge of the town. She hadn't even known it existed. The torchlight on the front door painted the snow gold where two guards stood watch.

"Consarn," Idonea muttered.

Lysander’s lips brushed close to her ear as he leaned in. “There’s another way.”

Her pulse leapt. “What way?”

He tilted his head towards the back, so near his hair brushed her cheek. “Trust me.”

She did.