It took several long seconds for what had happened last night to sink in. The memories, each more intimate than the last, hit me piece by piece—the kiss, my ripped nightgown... Weaver, his mouth...
A flush found my skin. As if to check whether it had all been real, my fingers slipped down to my bare legs—pausing at the two small wounds on my inner thigh, now scabbing over.
And if there was any doubt of the rest of it... well, the soreness between my legs put that to rest.
A smile flitted over my lips.
And then, just as quickly, it faded.
I had fucked him. The man I had been tasked to kill.
I had broken my vows to the Arachessen. Broken my vows to Acaeja herself.
I thought I had been making that decision clear-headed last night. But now, all at once, a violent burst of guilt twisted in my stomach. Not rational guilt, not logical guilt—this was the delirious guilt of a child, terrified of a parent’s wrath.
I carefully extracted myself from Atrius’s embrace, careful not to wake him. My pack from the trip to the island was here, tucked away in the corner with Atrius’s things. The sight of it there, so easily accommodated into his life, made a lump rise in my throat.
I was sure the island had been scattered with the belongings of the people who had lived there or the warriors who had been attacked there. All had likely been gathered and sorted by Atrius’s soldiers.
But not mine.
Atrius carried mine himself, just as he had carried me, even when his people were dying.
It wasn’t until this exact moment that I realized: as far as Atrius was concerned, I was one of his people.
I pulled the bag free and opened it. The clothes inside were wrinkled and reeking of sea salt. They, and the canvas of the bag itself, were dotted with browning spatters of blood. Mine, of course—too red to be vampire blood.
The dagger was right on top.
I unsheathed it. It was now sunset, light seeping through the canvas of the tent. Pangs of it glistened on the cold steel. Still unremarkable in appearance, of course, but just holding the weapon in my hands, I could feel the magic forged into it. Powerful.
My awareness fell behind me, to Atrius’s sleeping form. In my absence, he had curled up a bit more, his face pressed to the pillow. His presence was soft like this, the hard edges of his pain and determination sanded away. He seemed almost childlike.
If the Sightmother was here now, she would command me to kill him.
I couldn’t pretend that wasn’t the case. That this was exactly what she had imagined when she gave the order. And if I did it, I would be welcomed back to the Salt Keep with open arms. No one would ask about my virginity, and even if they knew, they would pretend they didn’t. Many Arachessen slept with their targets. Hell, even if I hadn’t, many would assume that I did.
In the scheme of the greater will of the Weaver, there wasn’t a soul who wouldn’t look away, as long as they thought I did what I did solely out of devotion to my mission.
A version of myself from four months ago would have seen this as such a clear-cut decision: This is the moment. Take it.
I saw it as a clear-cut decision now, too.
Because there was no part of me, not even the part steeped in guilt, not even the little girl who thought she owed her entire life to Acaeja and to the Arachessen, that even considered killing Atrius in this moment.
I could not do it.
I would not do it.
I sheathed the dagger.
Atrius’s eyes opened. He never woke up slowly or groggily. He was always simply awake, immediately. Today was no exception, and when those eyes snapped open, they fell to me as instantly as if it was nothing less than instinct.
My heart twisted, a sensation that was one part pleasant, one part painful.
He didn’t say anything, but reached out his hand—a silent beckoning.
Another twinge in my chest.
I crawled back to the bedroll and sat cross-legged beside it. His hand fell to my thigh, fingers brushing the wound he’d left. He lingered there for a moment, like he too was reliving pieces of the night before.
“You look better.”
Atrius’s way of asking, How are you feeling?
“I feel better.”
His hand didn’t move. I was so conscious of that touch that it was almost distracting—and yet, strangely comforting. I hadn’t been prepared for how intense skin-to-skin contact with Atrius was. Not the first time I touched him, not last night, and not now.
A flare of desire in his presence as his eyes ran over me told me he was thinking the same thing. And Weaver, it was tempting—the idea of crawling back into bed with him and disappearing into carnal bliss.
But Atrius was not one to find it easy to distract himself, sex or no. And sadly, as much as I sometimes wished otherwise, neither was I.
“Sun is falling,” I said.
We both knew what that meant. Night began, and the work began.
Solemnness rolled over Atrius’s face. “Yes. I need to find out how many we lost in the day.”
A pang of his hurt mingled with my own. It didn’t matter that they were vampires. The scenes I witnessed these last few days were far too familiar—too reminiscent of every death I’d seen at the hands of the Pythora King. It didn’t matter what their teeth or blood looked like. That suffering was the same.
In the wake of the worst events we’d seen, the Sightmother would always remind us that death is nothing to be mourned, simply the will of the Weaver. The others seemed to find comfort in this. But I never could.
For most of my life that had been something shameful.
Not today. Today, I was glad to feel it—the anger at all those countless deaths.
“The Pythora King will pay for it,” I said quietly. “Soon enough. You’ll avenge all those lives.”
Atrius’s gaze and his attention slipped far away, a shiver of mournfulness tinging the air between us.
I felt his unspoken question.
My brow furrowed. “What?”
He let out a light scoff, a wry smile twisting one side of his mouth. “You see too much, seer.”
“I see just enough, conqueror.”
The smile lingered, then faded. Finally, he said, “I don’t know if this is the right thing.”
The words came slow, like such a blatant admission of uncertainty stuck in his throat.
I’d thought Atrius couldn’t shock me anymore. But this—this shocked me. “Why?”
“These men and women have been with me for decades. I took them away from their homes. They followed me into nightmares. And never, not once, did they question me.” His eyes lowered to the bedroll, his jaw tight. “And where have I led them, to thank them for their loyalty?”
“You led them here.”
“A human kingdom that isn’t their home. Because they can’t go back to their homes, due to my actions.”
My hand fell over his before I could stop myself, clutching tight. “You led them to a second chance.”