But if Safiya was indeed almost to Lejna, and if that would indeed—as Leopold had said—put her out of reach entirely, then Aeduan couldn’t waste any more time.
He released Leopold’s lungs and throat, but nothing more. Aeduan would hold the prince until he was too far away for Leopold to catch up.
Yet as soon as Aeduan spun around to launch into a magic-fueled sprint, Leopold whispered, “You aren’t the demon your father wants you to be.”
That stopped Aeduan dead in his path. With methodical slowness, he twisted back. “What did you say?”
“You aren’t the demon—”
“After that!” Aeduan stalked to Leopold and dipped his face in close. “I have no father.”
“You do,” the prince rasped. “The one who calls himself—”
Aeduan latched on to all of Leopold’s blood then. He stopped every single function in the prince’s body—breath, pulse, vision.
But not the prince’s hearing. Not the prince’s thoughts.
“I,” Aeduan whispered, “am the demon they think I am. And you, Your Highness, should have killed me when you had the chance.”
He tightened his grip. Tighter, tighter … until he sensed the blood in Leopold’s brain grow too weak to sustain thought. To sustain consciousness.
Aeduan released the prince. Leopold collapsed to the flagstones, still as stone. Still as death. Even the stormy breeze did not reach the prince now.
For several long, salt-filled breaths, Aeduan stared at the prince’s body. He’d found Leopold, but not the second scent. That blood was gone. Whoever it was, though, was undoubtedly working with Leopold—and perhaps knew about Aeduan’s father as well.
Aeduan should kill the prince. His father would say to kill him. Yet if Aeduan did that, then he would never learn whose blood smelled like clear lakes and frozen winters. He would never learn who had ordered Leopold to kill him—or why.
Aeduan supposed he could always lie to his father and then investigate on his own.
Aeudan nodded, satisfied with that. He would leave Leopold alive and hunt down the prince again later. For answers.
So without a second glance, Aeduan left behind the Imperial Prince of Cartorra and the Origin Well and as he ran, the setting sun warmed his back and a wind picked up speed behind him.
THIRTY-FIVE
Merik jerked awake to the sound of distant thunder—and the touch of fingers against his collarbone. Were he not so deeply asleep, he might’ve guessed the only three people who could’ve put their hands this close.
But Merik was too submerged in slumber, and his brain didn’t kick in until long after his instincts had.
He snatched the fingers at his chest, swung up a single leg, and flipped the perpetrator over … His eyelids snapped wide, breath ragged yet every piece of his being alert.
His gaze met blue eyes, made almost black in the cloudy moonlight. “Domna.” One of his hands hit the dirt beside her head. His other squeezed her wrist.
Her fingers furled in, making her wrist flex wider in Merik’s grip, and he thought he felt her heartbeat against his chest. That he heard it pounding over the storm-carried breeze and endless song of the forest—though that might have been his own heartbeat.
Safi wet her lips. “What are you doing?” Her whisper tickled against Merik’s chin. Sent a chill down his neck.
“What are you doing?” he whispered back. “Pickpocketing me?”
“You were snoring.”
“You were drooling,” he retorted—a bit too quickly. He had been known to snore.
Merik slid his free hand behind her head and lowered his own until he blocked all moonlight from her face. Until all he saw were her glittering eyes.
“Tell me,” he said slowly, “the truth, Domna. What were you doing with your hand in my shirt? Taking advantage of me in my sleep?”
“No,” she growled, jutting out her chin. “I was only trying to wake you. To make you stop snoring.” She wiggled again, her body tensing beneath Merik’s—a sign her temper was rising. If Merik didn’t move soon, her legs would weave between his, her fingers would claw, and her eyes would burn in a way that would make resistance of his rage—of his magic—impossible.
Merik relaxed his grip on Safi’s wrist, eased his hand from behind her head, and used his knees—palms flat against the earth—to lift his chest from hers.
Her back arched.
Merik froze.
Halfway to his elbows, a rawness opened in his rib cage. Spiraled through him—and spiraled through her as well. It was as if a string connected their chests, and any movement he made would be matched by her.
His eyes ran the length of her. She was vastly different from the women of his homeland. Her hair was the color of the sand, her eyes the color of the sea. Merik exhaled harshly. No matter how his fingers and lips ached for it, he couldn’t give into this … hunger.
He slid off of her and onto his back, draping a hand over his eyes to block out the sky. To block out the hot awareness of Safi beside him. Every drop of his witchery and every inch of his flesh responded to her.
“I can’t do this,” he finally admitted—to her. To himself. Then he was on his feet, yanking his coat off the bedroll and striding toward the forest. Toward the sea.
He towed on his jacket as he marched. Somehow, wearing it made him feel calmer. In charge … Except, of course—of course—Safi followed.
“Why are you here?” he demanded, once he’d rounded the overhang into a buzzing, breezy forest. She padded several steps behind.