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There is love in this kiss, and only love.

My lashes flutter open.

I watch him, melted to him.

Any doubt I ever had about how deep his hurt runs, it’s shattered to pieces right in front of me as I watch the pain gloss over his eyes.

I lift my hands for his face. Fingertips press into the warmth of his cheek. I graze my touch up to his cheekbone, then down to his jawline.

I stroke him, caress him, I love him.

The tension in his chest deflates. He loosens a breath, a soft and curt sigh, then drops his forehead to mine.

The flutter of his lashes tickles my face.

This moment is soft in its silence. And yet it is so fucking loud in its meaning.

His surrender.

11

††††††

I can only hope that the slaves of Hemlock House scrub the table in the kitchens every phase—and that they made extra thorough work of it this particular Warmth.

It wasn’t something I gave much thought to as Daxeel fucked me into this very table. But now that we have all found our way down to the kitchens this Breeze, having missed our breakfasts and lunches from all the drink-illness going around, I watch with too-wide eyes as Rune drops a chunk of fresh bread on the surface.

My throat is tight, gaze wide.

He picks it up—and tosses it into his mouth.

A breath grunts out of me, as though I have been struck, hard, in the chest.

Rune throws a frown my way, then rips off another warm chunk of bread.

Heat flames my face.

If anyone looks closely at me tucked up in my chair, nursing a mug of coca tea, then I fear they will know exactly what sort of deeds happened here just last Quiet.

It is written all over.

A pair of frosted green eyes lure in my gaze.

That heat burns hotter on my face as Samick considers me from across the table. Silent, he reclines in his chair, his fingers threaded through the handle of a copper mug, toying with the string of a tea strainer. He watches me closely.

He knows, he knows, he knows.

But if he does, when he flicks his chilly stare to Daxeel at my side, he says nothing of it.

The pair only share a glance for a pulsed moment, then Daxeel leans back in his chair. It creaks under the shift of his muscled weight.

Without so much as a look my way, Daxeel throws back an entire mug of cinnamon tea like it is saltwater and he’s a dehydrating selkie. He pours another.

No slaves in the kitchens at this hour to tend to us, so we manage ourselves.

Aleana struggles.

Opposite me, she tips a glass jar over her soggy oats and, with her bloodshot eyes straining to stay open, pours a hefty stream of cold goat’s milk.