Page 110

“That's not how it works.”

“It is now.” He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers. Neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed. “I'll make you a deal. I'll stay alive if you stay alive. And when this is over . . . ”

“When this is over,” she repeated, her voice cracking again.

“We'll finish this conversation.”

She stood there, forehead pressed to his, eyes closed. The most intimate they had ever been.

Then, slowly, she pulled away. Not running this time. Her hand trailing down his arm as she went. Her fingers caught his for just a moment before letting go.

She didn't look back. But she didn't have to.

Garrick watched her go. The look on his face was one I recognized, a man realizing too late that he may have been too late.

He caught me watching.

“Not a word,” he said.

“I didn't say anything.”

“Your face said plenty.” He pushed off the wall, wincing. “Go find your Threadbreaker. Leave me to my mistakes.”

I watched him go after Mira.

Outside, the yard looked like something from a dream.

Dozens of women in black, gathered in the fading light of dusk. Some stood in clusters, speaking quietly. Others checked supplies, adjusted cloaks, prepared themselves in whatever ways they needed. A few practiced magic, threads spinning between fingers, wards shimmering into existence, defensive patterns woven and released.

They did not look like the witches of nightmare. They did not look like the monsters hunters had painted them to be. They looked like women who had finally stopped running.

Beth moved among them, steady and commanding, her silver-streaked hair pulled back from a face that had seen decades of hiding and emerged ready for war. Esther coordinated with a cluster of women from her network, their voices low and urgent. Beatrice stood apart, her eyes closed, her hands raised, feeling the threads of fate themselves.

They were an army. A real army of Weavers, dressed in black, preparing to take back what had been stolen from them.

I felt him before I saw him.

Through the bond, a pulse of pride, longing, and fear. All of it tangled together, all of it aimed at me.

I turned.

August stood at the edge of the yard, watching me.

He was dressed for war himself, dark clothes, practical boots, a coat that would allow him to move. But his eyes were fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch. I saw myself through his perception: in black, standing among the women his family had hunted, ready to fight beside them.

He crossed the moonlit yard in long strides. When he reached me, he did not speak. He simply took my hand and pulled me toward the barn, away from the crowd, into the shadows where no one would see.

The barn was quiet. The space had returned to hay bales and dust motes and the smell of horses.

August pulled me behind a stack of hay, into a corner where the last light of dusk barely reached. His hands found my face, my shoulders, my waist, touching me like he needed to confirm I was real.

“You are devastating,” he said, his voice rough. “In black. Standing with them. Ready to destroy everything my father built.”

“We're going to destroy it together,” I said.

His forehead dropped to mine. The storm inside him crashed into me through the bond, all the things he wanted to say, all the fears he was trying to hold back.

“I have imagined a thousand ways to die,” he said quietly. “Planned for it. Expected it. Accepted it even.” His thumb traced my cheekbone. “I never once imagined having something worth living for.”