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Chapter Thirty
Aika
“Gemma?” Remy’s voice sounds like it’s coming from under water.
But I’m so tired. I’m not sure I can stand up against the weight of his judgment anymore, especially not after tonight.
“Gemma.” He calls to me again, and this time it’s a little clearer.
I realize he’s standing in front of me, looming over me from his substantial height. His mouth forms the name “Gemma” once more, his eyes flooded with something I can’t decipher.
I shake my head, another denial he can’t possibly understand.
No,I want to scream.Aika. Not Gemma. Not The Flame. Not the vigilante.
But those wouldn’t be true either. Nothing feels true anymore.
Turning to face him, I hold out my bloody wrists and sliced-up hands. I hadn’t been nearly as careful to protect them tonight, and I’m certain the red coating them is nearly as much my blood as that of the dead men.
Flames blaze in Remy’s eyes, the light of the fire dancing across his face in a pattern that’s almost mesmerizing.
He doesn’t speak, though.
His gaze darts behind me before he closes the distance between us, crouching in front of me.
A warm weight settles over my shoulders, and only then do I realize I am shivering. It’s his cloak. Without a word, he scoops me into his arms. I don’t protest.
As always, he smells like sage and lavender, making me painfully conscious that all I smell like is ashes and death.
“Coming to haul me away to the magistrate?” I rasp out.
“No.” He says the word like a curse.
“I knew you were bluffing.”
A bitter huff of air escapes him, but he doesn’t respond. It might be the first time I’ve seen him at a loss of words, but then, it’s the first time he’s found me in a broken heap outside a burning building full of roasting bodies, so I guess it’s a night of firsts.
Suddenly, that strikes me as funny also.
I let out a giggle that morphs into a sob, and he only shakes his head. I don’t expect him to understand the way that anything can be funny in the right circumstances... or the wrong ones.
After all, he’s a far cry from street-rat orphan turned mass murderer turned soon-to-be princess.
We don’t speak anymore, and he eventually puts me down. He grips my wrist, though, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep hold of me. He tugs me all the way to the back entrance of the Drunken Pumpkin, up to my cramped boarding room, and lights the lantern.
“I’ll be right back,” he says. “Don’t go anywhere... or set anything on fire.” A ghost of a smirk breaks through his troubled expression, and it occurs to me that he’s handling me with kid gloves.
I don’t think that I mind that right now.
I settle onto my bed, not sure staying is a good idea but having no real desire to leave, either. The door creaks open only minutes later, revealing Remy with a basin of water and a clean cloth.
He crosses over to me, kneeling in front of me before dipping the cloth in the water. Then he raises the cloth to my cheek, slowly wiping at the blood I know has gathered there.
His hands are strong, calloused from the weapons he trains with. I’ve felt their strength, seen their grace, and even experienced their skill firsthand.
But this tenderness is something new.
Neither of us speaks or tries to joke as he gently cleans the blood from my face and my hands. I want to tell him that the blood on my hands can’t be washed away as easily as this, that there are some stains that can never come out, and that my soul itself runs crimson now.
