“What of it?” she said, trying and failing for nonchalance. But he looked up at her from beneath his thick lashes. Well aware of her evasion. Elide loosed a breath, peering up at the tent’s peaked ceiling. “Does it make me any better than Vernon—how I chose to punish him in the end?”
She hadn’t regretted it the first day. Or the second. But these long miles, as it had become clear that Vernon was likely dead, she’d wondered.
“Only you can decide that, I think,” Lorcan said. Yet his fingers paused on her foot. “For what it’s worth, he deserved it.” His dark power rumbled through the room.
“Of course you’d say that.”
He shrugged, not bothering to deny it. “Perranth will recover, you know,” he offered. “From Morath’s sacking. And all Vernon did to it before now.”
That had been the other thought that weighed heavily with each mile northward. That her city, her father and mother’s city, had been decimated. That Finnula, her nursemaid, might be among the dead. That any of its people might be suffering.
“That’s if we win this war,” Elide said.
Lorcan resumed his soothing strokes. “Perranth will be rebuilt,” was all he said. “We’ll see that it is.”
“Have you ever done it? Rebuilt a city?”
“No,” he admitted, his thumbs coaxing the pain from her aching bones. “I have only destroyed them.” His eyes lifted to hers, searching and open. “But I should like to try. With you.”
She saw the other offer there—to not only build a city, but a life. Together.
Heat rose to her cheeks as she nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. “For however long we have.”
For if they survived this war, there was still that between them: his immortality.
Something shuttered in Lorcan’s eyes at that, and she thought he’d say more, but his head dipped. Then he began to unlace her other boot.
“What are you doing?” Her words were a breathless rush.
His deft fingers—gods above, those fingers—made quick work of her laces. “You should soak that foot. And soak in general. As I said, you work too hard.”
“You said I should rest more.”
“Because you work too hard.” He jerked his chin toward the bath as he pulled off the boot and helped her rise. “I’ll go find some food.”
“I already ate—”
“You should eat more.”
Giving her privacy without the awkwardness of her needing to ask for it. That’s what he was trying to do.
Barefoot before him, Elide peered into his granite-hewn face. Shrugged out of her cloak, then jacket. Lorcan’s throat bobbed.
She knew he could hear her heart as it began racing. Could likely scent every emotion on her. But she said, “I need help. Getting into the bath.”
“Do you, now.” His voice was near-guttural.
Elide bit her lip, her breasts becoming heavy, tingling. “I might slip.”
His eyes drifted down her body, but he made no move. “A dangerous time, bath time.”
Elide found it in herself to walk toward the copper tub. He trailed a few feet behind, giving her space. Letting her steer this.
Elide halted beside the tub, steam wafting past. She tugged the hem of her shirt from her pants.
Lorcan watched every move. She wasn’t entirely certain he was breathing.
But—her hands stalled. Uncertain. Not of him, but this rite, this path.
“Show me what to do,” she breathed.
“You’re doing just fine,” Lorcan ground out.
But she gave him a helpless look, and he prowled closer. His fingers found the loose hem of her shirt. “May I?” he asked quietly.
Elide whispered, “Yes.”
Lorcan still studied her eyes, as if reading the sincerity of that word. Deeming it true.
Gently, he pulled the fabric from her. Cool air kissed her skin, pebbling it. The flexible band around her breasts remained, but Lorcan’s gaze remained on her own. “Tell me what you want next,” he said roughly.
Hand shaking, Elide grazed a finger over the band.
Lorcan’s own hands shook as he unbound it. As he revealed her to the air, to him.
His eyes seemed to go wholly black as he took in her breasts, her uneven breathing. “Beautiful,” he murmured.
Elide’s mouth curled as the word settled within her. Gave her enough courage that she lifted her hands to his jacket and began unbuckling, unbuttoning. Until Lorcan’s own chest was bare, and she ran her fingers over the smattering of dark hair across the sculpted planes. “Beautiful,” she said.
Lorcan trembled—with restraint, with emotion, she didn’t know. That darling purr of his rumbled into her as she pressed her mouth against his pectoral.
His hand drifted to her hair, each stroke unbinding her braid. “We only go as far and long as you want,” he said. Yet she dared to glance down his body—to what strained under his pants.
Her mouth went dry. “I—I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Anything you do will be enough,” he said.
She lifted her head, scanning his face. “Enough for what?”
Another half smile. “Enough to please me.” She scoffed at the arrogance, but Lorcan brushed his mouth against her neck. His hands bracketed her waist, his thumbs grazing her ribs. But no higher.
Elide arched into the touch, a small sound escaping her as his lips brushed just beneath her ear. And then his mouth found hers, gentle and thorough.
Her hands twined around his neck, and Lorcan lifted her, carrying her not to the bath, but to the cot behind them, his lips never leaving hers.
Home. This, with him. This was home, as she had never had. For however long they might share it.
And when Lorcan laid her out on the cot, his breathing as uneven as her own, when he paused, letting her decide what to do, where to take this, Elide kissed him again and whispered, “Show me everything.”
So Lorcan did.
There was a gate, and a coffin.
She had chosen neither.
She stood in a place that was not a place, mist wreathing her, and stared at them. Her choices.
A thumping pounded from within the coffin, muffled female screams and pleading rising.
And the gate, the black arch into eternity—blood ran down its sides, seeping into the dark stone. When the gate had finished with the young king, this blood was all that remained.
“You’re no better than me,” Cairn said.
She turned to him, but it was not the warrior who had tormented her standing in the mists.
Twelve of them lurked there, formless and yet present, ancient and cold. As one they spoke. “Liar. Traitor. Coward.”
The blood on the gate soaked into the stone, as if the gate itself devoured even this last piece of him. The one who had gone in her place. The one she’d let go in her place.
The thumping from within the coffin didn’t cease.
“That box will never open,” they said.
She blinked, and she was inside that box—the stone so cold, the air stifling. Blinked, and she was pounding on the lid, screaming and screaming. Blinked, and there were chains on her, a mask clamped over her face—
Aelin awoke to dim braziers and the pine-and-snow scent of her mate wrapped around her. Outside their tent, the wind howled, setting the canvas walls swaying and swelling.
Tired. She was so, so tired.
Aelin stared into the dark for long hours and did not sleep again.
Even with the cover of Oakwald, despite the wider path that Aelin incinerated on either side of the ancient road running up through the continent like a withered vein, she could feel Endovier looming. Could feel the Ruhnn Mountains jutting toward them, a wall against the horizon.
She rode near the front of the company, not saying much as the morning, then the afternoon passed. Rowan stayed by her side, always remaining on her left—as if he might be a shield between her and Endovier—while she sent out plumes of flame that melted ancient trees ahead. Rowan’s wind stifled any smoke from alerting the enemy of their approach.
He’d finished the tattoos the night before. Had taken a small hand mirror to show her what he’d done. The tattoo he’d made for them.