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Still he remained on the threshold of the room.

“I can’t give all of myself to this war. I’ll lose my mind,” I whispered. “I am ready to fight to the end, but I need one thing—just one—that the revolution doesn’t touch. That is not meant to further it. Not a scheme, or a tactic.” A tremor raided my voice. “I want to show one person my true face. I want . . . just one place, one safe place, where I don’t have to be Black Moth. Otherwise she will consume me.”

It was some time before he moved again. Only when his door closed did I grasp that he was saying no.

****

There was always sound in this district of Paris. Music from the coffeehouse on the corner. Snatches of laughter from nearby Rue des Arcs. And blue tone. The endless breath of the citadel. Tonight, it all seemed so much quieter, as if Paris had at last fallen asleep.

In the safe house, there was silence. For want of a distraction, I took a proper shower, only shivering a little, before I brushed my teeth and found a nightshirt. In my room, I changed the sheets.

A snow moon tipped its light over Paris. Wrapped in a blanket, I opened the windows and huddled on the ledge behind the balustrade.

Underneath his armor, he was losing a long battle with himself. I saw that now, as I had failed to truly see before. I nearly went into the parlor—except I had already made my confession. I had told him, in no uncertain terms, what I wanted. Now it was his choice.

When the cold set in, I knew. I had been a fool to hope it would ever work between us. I was mortal. He was as ageless and distant as his namesake. I would be his mayfly lover, dead after a day. It was over. I returned to bed and tried to fade into sleep, but my heart kept drumming me awake.

Just before midnight, I sensed movement. Arcturus was no longer in his room. Little by little, I sat up, all my attention fixed on the æther. And then he was at my open door.

Time clotted, slow as honey dripping from a comb. He came to sit on my bed, and for a long time, neither of us moved.

“It is a splendid and terrible thing,” he said, gaze on the wall, “to be Rephaite, and to feel so acutely for a human. It has brought wonder to my existence to learn the deepest truths of yours. To find that, though we are different, we are also alike.” His voice was a long shadow. “And yet it has also brought fear. Fear of everything that could curtail your life—even time, which never touched me. Even my own arms around you.”

Slowly, I turned his face.

“Fear is a constant for us mortals,” I murmured, “but so is the knowledge that no matter what happens, no matter how careful and afraid we are, life does end. So you might as well take every shot you get.” I looked up at him. “You said I didn’t need you. Maybe neither of us needs the other. We both know how to be alone. Is it not enough that we want each other?”

Smokeless heat rose in his eyes.

Our meeting was quiet. Guarded, as if he really was afraid I would shatter at the slightest touch. He let me guide his brow against mine, and I felt myself be kindled by his aura.

“Paige.”

That was all he had left. Just my name. I touched my lips to his.

It was hardly a kiss. Just a whisper of my mouth on his, a give and take of breath. Tilting back, I idled my fingertips along his jaw, then his lower lip—full and smooth, curved like the limb of a bow. Calling my courage, I stroked the tip of my tongue across that lip before I drew it into my mouth.

Deep in his chest, resonance. The taste of him woke a dream of red drapes. I held his nape, exploring his mouth with a tender slowness that could only stem from certainty. I could touch him now. I meant to savor it.

“I can offer you nothing,” he said. “Only a song in the shadows.”

“Sing it to me,” I whispered back.

One of his hands cradled my leg. He traced the same wound that had set me on fire.

He gathered me into his arms—gently, carefully, so I could breathe. My hands were on his sarx, his lips hot and sure on mine. Our kiss deepened as his fingers strayed into my hair.

All seven of my senses were in freefall. I broke the kiss and started to unbutton my shirt. At first, he only watched—and just that, thewatching, it set me alight—before he abetted its fall from my shoulders, and his hands moved up the bare skin of my arms.

Before, we had been grasping at stolen moments, always in the limen. This was different. Every look, every touch, was a piece of a promise. Commitment to our crime.

His gaze seared over me. He stroked his thumb over my lips, soft and reverent. For the first time, I was aware of a new power. Not possession. Not the crown. Something else.

As he dipped his lips to my collarbone, tasted the hollow of my throat, I took him by the hand and led it to my breast. When he cupped it, a fractured sound came, unwilled, from my lips. I was lost to the discovery of pleasure, unable to do anything but let myself be touched.

For so long, I had treated my body like a burden, a weight to be cast off. Forgotten its potential for softness. My skin was still tender from the heat. Every touch was heightened, shivering. He kissed my neck and each of my ribs, and when I was taut with frustration, he drew the delicate tip of my breast into his mouth. My mind drifted to a day when I had found a smoked-glass shew stone at the black market. Claiming its polished beauty, knowing I would be executed if I was ever found with it in my possession. I had kept it because it was beautiful. Because holding it was an act of defiance.

At last, I found the clarity to return his touches. The divot at the base of his throat. His broad shoulders and the ledge of his collarbone. I smoothed my hands around his sides, to the scars on his back, and he lifted his gaze back to mine. He watched my face as I ran my fingertips over the mutilation, letting him know where I was and where I meant to go.