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But . . . ?Steel City. A forge. That’s too close.
I try to bide the time in my room, but the air is too stifling and my nerves are too jangled. I’ll never sleep. I head for our workshop hours before we’re supposed to be there and light the fire. I thought this would be better, to sit somewhere and wait, but it’s worse. Every inch of this space is wrapped up in two years’ worth of memories of Wes. That’s where he sits while I measure. That’s the spot where he burned his finger on the woodstove. That’s the window that broke during the winter storms, the one Wes boarded over while the snow swirled in.
I fall asleep in the chair, sitting up, tears on my face. When I sleep, I dream. I dream of my parents, the night they were caught by the night patrol. I remember how I was ready to burst from my hiding place, ready to tackle the patrolmen myself. Wes caught me and kept me out of sight that night—but in my dream, he’s caught, too, his body jerking as arrows pierce his flesh. I dream of Wes’s body hung from the gates or his head on a stake. I see him broken and burning in a pile of bodies, while onlookers yell, though some cheer. I dream of him screaming for me, shouting warnings while they beat him with clubs, smashing his bones.
“Tessa. Tessa.”
I open my eyes and there he is. For a moment, I think this is a new dream, that I’ve been so worried that my imagination has conjured him into this space, and I’ll wake up for real and the workshop will still be empty.
But he’s not. He’s real and solid and his blue eyes are bright as ever behind the mask. My eyes well with relief, and I don’t even bother to stop the tears from running over.
“You’re crying?” he says, and he sounds so startled about the fact that I’m crying over him that I want to punch him right in the face.
Instead I lurch forward and throw my arms around his neck.
“Tessa,” he says. “This is so sudden.”
“Shut up, Wes. I hate you.”
“Ah yes. Quite obviously.”
I giggle through my tears against his shoulder. I should let him go.
I don’t.
He doesn’t either.
I want to ask if he knows about the people who were arrested, but instead, all that comes out of my mouth is, “Do you have a wife and a house full of children to feed?”
“No. Do you?”
I sniff and draw back to stare at him. For all his teasing, his eyes are serious, searching mine.
“You were right,” he says.
“About the children?”
He grins. “No. No children.” He shakes his head at me like I’m addled. “No, you were right that I should see you without your mask.”
I gasp and slap my hands to my bare cheeks.
Weston’s grin turns wolfish. “I regret not taking you up on the offer earlier.”
I sink back into the chair and press my hands over my eyes, but of course it’s too late now—and truly, he was the one who never wanted to see me. “I was . . . ?upset. I wasn’t thinking. I was so worried.” My voice breaks on the last word.
He drops into the opposite chair. “Tell me all your fears.”
“I thought you were one of the smugglers who got captured.”
His face goes still, and his eyes seem to shutter. “I’m not a smuggler, Tessa.”
“I know. I know you’re not. We’re not.” I have to swipe at my eyes. “I just—they were from Steel City, so I thought maybe—”
“You see every single petal I take from the Royal Sector.” His eyes have gone cold. “I’ve never sold anything that we’ve taken. What we do—”
“Wes! I know.”
“What we do,” he repeats, his tone as sharp as I’ve ever heard it, “is not the same as what the smugglers do. I’m not in this to line my pockets.”
