Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“Listen to yourself, Cordelia!” James shouted. “You are without Cortana! You cannot even lift a weapon! Do you know what it means to me, that you cannot protect yourself? Do you understand that I am terrified, every moment of every day and night, for your safety?”


Cordelia stood speechless. She had no idea what to say. She blinked, and felt something hot against her cheek. She put her hand up quickly—surely she was not crying?—and it came away scarlet.

“You’re bleeding,” James said. He closed the distance between them in two strides. He caught her chin and lifted it, his thumb stroking across her cheekbone. “Just a scratch,” he breathed. “Are you hurt anywhere else? Daisy, tell me—”

“No. I’m fine. I promise you,” she said, her voice wavering as his intent golden gaze spilled over her, searching her for signs of injury. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s the furthest thing from nothing,” James rasped. “By the Angel, when I realized you’d gone out, at night, weaponless—”

“What were you even doing at the house? I thought you were staying at the Institute.”

“I came to get something for Jesse,” James said. “I took him shopping, with Anna—he needed clothes, but we forgot cuff links—”

“He did need clothes,” Cordelia agreed. “Nothing he had fit.”

“Oh, no,” said James. “We are not chatting. When I came in, I saw your dress in the hall, and Effie told me she’d caught a glimpse of you leaving. Not getting into a carriage, just wandering off toward Shepherd Market—”

“So you Tracked me?”

“I had no choice. And then I saw—you had gone to where your father died,” he said, after a moment. “I thought—I was afraid—”

“That I wanted to die too?” Cordelia whispered. It had not occurred to her that he might think that. “James. I may be foolish, but I am not self-destructive.”

“And I thought, had I made you as miserable as that? I have made so many mistakes, but none were calculated to hurt you. And then I saw what you were doing, and I thought, yes, she does want to die. She wants to die and this is how she’s chosen to do it.” He was breathing hard, almost gasping, and she realized how much of his fury was despair.

“James,” she said. “It was a foolish thing to do, but at no moment did I want to die—”

He caught at her shoulders. “You cannot hurt yourself, Daisy. You must not. Hate me, hit me, do anything you want to me. Cut up my suits and set fire to my books. Tear my heart into pieces, scatter them across England. But do not harm yourself—” He pulled her toward him, suddenly, pressing his lips to her hair, her cheek. She caught him by the arms, her fingers digging into his sleeves, holding him to her. “I swear to the Angel,” he said, in a muffled voice, “if you die, I will die, and I will haunt you. I will give you no peace—”

He kissed her mouth. Perhaps it had been meant to be a quick kiss, but she could not help herself: she kissed back. And it was like breathing air after being trapped underground for weeks, like coming up into sunlight after darkness.

James caught at her waist, pulled her tight against him, his mouth slanting over hers. She had kissed him before, and it had always been overwhelming, an experience that shattered all her senses. But there was something different in this kiss—never had she felt such unbridled desperation in him, such a consuming blaze of need and fury and love, a whirlwind that seemed to spin her high into the upper atmosphere, where she could barely breathe.

They fell back against the wall. Her hands threaded themselves into his dark hair, soft and familiar. He bit at her lower lip, sending a shudder of exquisite sharpness through her before he soothed the sting with his tongue. She delved into his mouth; the sweet heat of him was like hot honey, and the moan she wrung from him was pure gratification. Kissing him was like traveling, exciting and unfamiliar, and at the same time it was coming home. It was everything.

“Daisy,” he whispered against her mouth, sending delicious shivers through her, a chorus of cascading sparks. “Do you have any idea what it would do to me if something happened to you? Do you?”

“Oh, my goodness!” It was Effie, her gray pompadour wobbling with shock. Cordelia and James sprang apart; James’s expression was composed, but Cordelia was sure she was blushing scarlet.

“Effie,” James said. “The door was closed.”

“Well, I’m sure,” Effie snapped. “I thought you meant to keep out a draft. Besides, there’s someone at the front door.” She snorted. “Married folk, carrying on like this. Well, I never, in all my born days, I haven’t. Humph!”

She stalked off. James turned to Cordelia—he looked a mess, flushed and disheveled, his mouth red from kisses. “Daisy—don’t go—I’ll get rid of whoever it is, you can wait upstairs—”

But she was already backing away, shaking her head. She had held everything she felt for James locked away for so long, and now she had opened that door just a crack and already waves of emotion were battering at her.

“I need to tell you something,” he said, his voice shaking. “To show you something.”

“It’s too much,” she whispered. “Too much right now—I can’t—” His face fell. She sucked in a breath; she so desperately wanted to tell him she would wait for him upstairs, she so desperately wanted him, it felt like a sort of insanity. Her whole body screamed at her: Be with him, touch him, let him love you.

But upstairs waiting was where she had been when she had seen him with Grace. She could not relive that experience. And she could not trust her body. She knew that well enough.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “At the party—we’ll talk then.”

He only nodded; Cordelia caught up her skirts and ran from the room, nearly knocking down a very surprised-looking Jesse Blackthorn in the entryway as she fled the house.



* * *



“Jesse,” James said. “I, ah—well. Hello. I hadn’t been expecting you.”

Jesse only raised his eyebrows. James had hung back for several moments before leaving the study, composing himself. He could still feel Cordelia in his arms, still smell the scent of her spice and jasmine perfume. He felt exhausted, wrung through with layers of emotion: fear, then anger, then desperation, then desire. And hope, dashed quickly. Hope wore out the soul, more than any other feeling.

He let the control Jem had taught him take over, before he left the study and strode down the hall to find Jesse looking bemused in the foyer. Effie had taken herself off to continue her hysterics elsewhere, which was probably all to the good. Jesse was wrapped in the new olive-green coat Anna had helped him choose, and in his hand, he clutched a sheaf of yellowing parchment sheets bound in fragile leather. James recognized them immediately: Tatiana’s notes from Chiswick House.

“Is this a bad time?” Jesse said.

Yes, James thought, but it wasn’t as if he was going to be able to get Cordelia back now. And Jesse looked intensely worried. James felt suddenly cold, and not only from the night air. “Is Lucie all right?”