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And he’d take it over nothing.

Hells, Samuel hated himself for even hoping. He wasn’t a child to believe in such foolish things—in life, there were no truly happy endings.

She pulled out of his arms, and he let her go. He would always let her go when she needed it—she was too strong and free to be caged. “It’s late, Samuel. We should get some rest. Tomorrow we pick up the pieces.”

“What is the plan?”

“We wait for calm. I check with my birds—they are everywhere. He can’t hide forever.”

Samuel licked his lips. “And me?”

“For now? Prepare yourself.” She looked at him, with such kindness in her dark eyes that it felt like a knife. “You’ll have to be the one to bring him in, Samuel. If he won’t listen to reason, then you’ll have to force him.”

“I see.” Her hand came to rest on his arm, comforting, and he didn’t fight it. Not her touch or the pain that lanced through him. It made sense, he understood that. If Isaac was going to live, it would be the only way.

“I’m sorry,” Shan said, “to ask this of you.”

“Don’t be.” Samuel knew that eventually he’d have to embrace the monster within. Better to do it for Isaac than for the Eternal King. Better to bring him in alive than to murder him with a word. “I’ll be fine.”

It was a lie, and he knew that Shan knew it was a lie, but she didn’t press him. She just brushed her lips against his, a ghost of a kiss.

“We’ll get through this,” she promised. “One way or another.”

Samuel didn’t recognize his city. The riots were over, the Unblooded driven back to their homes—or worse—and Guards patrolled the streets, riding horses down the cobblestoned streets, holding lanterns of witch light high as they kept curfew. They nodded as they passed him, taking in his clothes, his hair, the Blood Worker’s dagger that Shan had strapped around his waist—marking him as one of their own in a glance—before continuing on.

Fear hung heavy in the air, driving even the bravest of Blood Workers into their homes, leaving the streets empty and cold. Come morning, most of Dameral’s elite would flee the city, taking unplanned vacations to their country homes and estates. Those who didn’t have the option would likely lock themselves in their houses, not leaving at all. In one day, everything had changed, and no one knew where the pieces would fall.

It gave his city a new shape and texture, so different from the bustle and life he was used to. Aeravin was a city of flaws, and a city of blood, a city of tragedy, but it had still been so alive. Now he felt exposed and alone, a stranger in the only home he had ever known.

It was past midnight by the time he arrived back at his home—though it still felt wrong to call it that, even after all these months. He let himself in the servants’ entrance, not wanting to disturb his staff, who should all be abed by this point.

Except for dear old Jacobs, who he found fast asleep in a chair in the foyer, where he must have been waiting for him. Samuel woke him gently, thanking him for his diligence, and sent him up to bed, insisting he did not need a valet that night.

It took surprisingly little convincing, and Samuel let out a sigh of relief, climbing the wide staircase to his bedchamber. He wanted to shed his skin, to tear away all these pieces of him that didn’t feel like they belonged, and then crawl into his bed and sleep for a year.

But when he opened the door to his rooms he found them occupied. It was dark, and the figure had his back to the window, the moonlight spilling over his shoulders and hiding his face in the shadows. Yet Samuel would recognize that exhausted slouch anywhere, the hand holding the burning cigarette, the shape of the silhouette.

“Isaac,” he whispered, the name almost like a prayer on his lips.

Isaac moved, flicking the cigarette out the window. The meager light caught his face, drawing Samuel’s attention to the scraggly almost-beard, the even worse circles under his eyes, the sheer exhaustion that was writ into his skin. Hells, the man was falling apart before his very eyes.

And Samuel should have seen it coming.

Stepping into the room, he closed the door behind him. “I’m surprised to find you here.”

Isaac smiled—but it was a false thing. “What? Never had a fugitive in your bed before?”

“No, don’t,” Samuel said. He crossed to him, his steps loud on the floor, but he had to touch him, catch him, prove that Isaac wasn’t some figment of his imagination. A ghost here to haunt him. “Please don’t hide. Not now.”

Samuel’s hand found its way to Isaac’s cheek, and he leaned into the touch like he was starved. “I didn’t know what you would do,” Isaac said, “when you found me here.”

“Honestly? I don’t know what I am going to do either,” Samuel whispered, and Isaac just leaned his forehead against his. “I know what I should do, what’s expected of me. But now that you’re here…”

Isaac twisted, fisting his hands in Samuel’s jacket, yanking him forward so he could crash his mouth against his. Samuel let him take command of the kiss, let Isaac shove him hard against the wall, his back cracking against the wood as Isaac ran his tongue along the seam of his lips, coaxing him open.

Samuel gasped as Isaac dropped a hand to his waist, nails digging into his skin as he pulled him flush against him, taking and plundering, and hells, biting. Isaac’s teeth sank hard on his lower lip, and Samuel groaned as the blood welled and spilled, Isaac sucking lightly on the wound.

Clasping his hands around Isaac’s shoulders, Samuel could feel the flex of the muscles under his hands, could hear the flutter of Isaac’s heart in his chest, could taste the desperation on his lips. Something like magic was thrumming between them—blood spilt and mingled in a way that pulled the tension beyond them as taut as a wire, and Samuel felt like he was about to burn right out of his skin.