“I’ve missed you,” I say softly, because it’s true, so true that it almost pulls tears into my eyes again.
He goes still, which I don’t expect, and then exhales against my neck. His breath shudders. His hands slow, holding me tight, holding me still. There’s a different tension in his body now, a whisper of sorrow in the air.
I lean against him. “Rhen?”
It takes him forever to look up and meet my gaze. The aisle is dim, his eyes pools of darkness. He touches my cheek, his fingers light at first, until his palm is against my jaw and his thumb traces over my lips. “This is the dress you first wore to Silvermoon.”
I frown. “You remember?”
“You looked like a queen.” His eyes find mine again. “You look like a queen.”
“It’s a great dress.”
He inhales and blows it out slowly. “I did not tell you about Grey because sometimes I think your will is stronger than mine.”
“Sometimes?” I tease, but gently, because he seems so fragile.
“Just as before,” he says, “I did not tell you because I feared it would put you in harm’s way.”
Before. It takes me a moment to figure out what he’s talking about, but then I do. Before the curse was broken, when Lilith was torturing him night after night because he’d come close to finding love with me. I basically had to force him into my room because he wouldn’t willingly put me at risk—but he’s never denied me anything.
I would have asked him not to harm Grey, and he wouldn’t have done it.
My heart gives a jump in my chest. I was wrong before. It’s not that he puts Emberfall first.
He puts me first.
“Rhen.” I stare at him. “Did something happen at the party?”
“The party was a success,” he says. “I met a mercenary from Wildthorne Valley who offered insight into troop movements. She spoke of weapons in Syhl Shallow that could stand against magic.”
“Wait—what?” I blink at him. “You’re not telling me something.” I study the sharp lines of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes, more pronounced now in the dark.
I should have asked.
I consider how he’s been these last few weeks. The way he’s tense and jumpy, how he never seems to sleep anymore. The way we’re supposed to be preparing for war—but he doesn’t seem to be preparing anything at all.
If Rhen is anything, it’s prepared.
I square my shoulders and look at him. “You don’t want to go to war,” I guess.
“If I do not, Grey will take Emberfall,” he says. “He will ally with Syhl Shallow, and their people have slaughtered ours by the thousands. He is not a king, Harper. He has no experience in ruling a country.”
“Is that it?” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Or is it his magic that you’re afraid of?”
He flinches at the word magic.
“I don’t believe Grey means you harm,” I say quietly.
“In truth, my fears do not concern Grey.”
I go still. There’s a note in his voice I can’t parse out.
“Rhen.” I step into him again, until we breathe the same air. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”
Finally, his eyes meet mine. “Lilith.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
RHEN
Harper is frowning up at me. I long to draw the words back into my mouth, to erase the enchantress’s name from this moment.
Harper is so lovely in the dimness of the stable aisle, her curls coming a bit loose from their pins, her lips flushed and swollen from kissing me. Her eyes are full of concern, and I wish I could reverse time by the span of one minute, so I could steal that worry from her expression.
But I can’t do this again. I can’t keep this from her any longer.
“Lilith?” she says.
The name still has the power to make my heart skip with fear, and I flick my eyes to the shadowed corners of the stable, as if Lilith might appear right here, right now.
She doesn’t.
Harper’s frown deepens. “But Lilith is dead.”
“No. She is not.” I take a breath, and my voice drops. “She has been here, to Ironrose. She has returned with magic, and threats, and a clear desire to make me miserable.”
Harper takes a step back, and it hurts to let her go. I expect to see betrayal in her expression, but there’s none.
There’s resolve.
When she speaks, her voice is level. “When? Where is she? What has she done?” Without waiting for an answer, she looks at the door and raises her voice. “Dustan! Guards!”
“My lady—”
The doors are thrown wide, and four guards sweep into the aisle, weapons drawn, eyes seeking a threat.
I give her a withering glance, then stoop to grab my jacket and sword belt. At least she is fully dressed. “Stand down,” I say to the guards. “There is no cause for alarm.”
“Yes, there is.” Harper’s voice is like steel. “If she’s back, you shouldn’t be alone.”
Dustan has sheathed his weapon, but he glances between us. He’s definitely picked up on the tension in her voice. “My lord?”
I sigh and shove my arms through the sleeves of my jacket. “Commander. I will retire to my chambers.”
Harper inhales to make more demands, I’m sure, but I give her a level glare and hold out my hand. “Join me, my lady?”
She scowls, but she places her hand in mine. We stride out of the stable, but I hesitate as we cross over the threshold, my eyes searching the darkness for the enchantress.
Harper notices, because her step falters, too, and she glances up at me. I force myself to keep walking.
“Talk to me,” she hisses. “How can you say something like that and not tell me anything more?”
“I planned to, but you called for guards.” She is so impulsive. A cold breeze whispers against the bare skin of my neck and I shiver. I want to be inside. I want to be in my chambers. I want to be locked behind a door so thick that no one could penetrate it.
None of that would matter. Nothing stops Lilith.
We reach the rear doors of the castle, and a footman leaps to hold it open. Once we’re out of the chilly night air, I feel better. Less exposed. Dustan sticks close to us, and I want to send him away. I already saw what Lilith did to Grey, season after season. I have no desire to see it inflicted on more of my guardsmen.
But Harper has clearly spooked him. Once we reach my chambers, Dustan stations himself outside, along with three other guardsmen. He inhales like he’s going to say something, but I close the door in his face.
My eyes flick to the corners before I look at Harper. “I suppose I should be glad you did not alert the entire castle.”
“Don’t you dare get mad at me.”
“I am not mad. I am …” My voice trails off, and I sigh. I set my sword against the wall, then run my hands down my face. I have no idea how to finish that statement. I am …
Regretful.
Resigned.
Exhausted.
And the worst: ashamed.
Speaking those words would seem to give weight to my faults, and I’ve done that enough already.
“I do not know what I am,” I say.