Page 70

Chapter 67

IRIS

“It won’t bite.”

I stared at the gift in my hands.

“We said no gifts,” I breathed, running my thumb over the flower etched across the front of the oval locket. It was nestled atop an inlaid blue grey stone, curling around the sharp facets. I flipped the heavy metal over, tracing the filigree edges. Kacidon jewelry was exclusively silver. I’d never seen a piece made with a different precious metal here—neither in the market nor worn by anyone in the palace.

But this locket matched my collection.

This locket was gold.

“I didn’t listen,” he replied, eyes glinting.

Sunlight bounced off the metal, illuminating the sharp planes of his face. Looking up at him, it hit me just how much had changed.

I wanted a life. Outside of the Grove. Outside of running.

There was so much of this world worth fighting for, so much to be found ahead.

And I wanted to be part of it.

“I meant what I said, Iris,” Aspen said firmly, reaching up to brush a thumb over my chin. “No matter what. I will be with you. On every path.”

His words skittered over my bones, settling somewhere deep. Somewhere that shied from the light.

There was something so inevitable about the way Aspen Gavalon became a beacon. In every room, in every moment, my entire being spun like a compass, unerringly drawn to him.

He stretched a hand out, tilting his head forward in question. I placed the locket in his palm, and he stepped behind me.

I inhaled deeply as he gathered my hair over one shoulder, his fingers dancing along the exposed skin, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. My eyes fluttered shut as he pressed a delicate kiss between my shoulder blades, wind brushing over the uncovered edges of my tattoo.

Then his warmth withdrew, replaced by the cool metal settling over my sternum.

“On every path,” he whispered again, his breath hot against the shell of my ear.

The delicate chain wrapped around my neck, and as he clasped the ends together, he placed another kiss below my ear. My breath hitched when his fingers trailed down my collarbones, coming to rest against the locket.

“Did you open it?”

Using his thumbnail, he unclasped the locket and turned us to face the mirror, pressing his body close to mine. Even reversed in the reflection, I could make out the symbols engraved inside.

Ancient Divinian.

My fluency still suffered, and I rarely worked without the decoder. But months of reading the same symbols had familiarized me enough to decipher them.

On every path.

And on the other half?—

A radiant sun.

“Aspen, I…” I grappled for words. Something to express the tenderness I felt, the depth in which he saw me.

Because the sun had not been engraved on the outside—where I would constantly check that it was hidden from prying eyes. A perpetual habit, irrational yet deeply ingrained. He didn’t ask me to move past it, didn’t resent my inability to break the practice.

Instead, he had it carved on the inside.

Where I could cherish it. Where it was ours.

A sunbeam.

For reclaiming a symbol I had loved—warped, tarnished, and ripped away long before I met him.

I really loved the sun.

“The sun walked back into my life the day I met you.”

His voice was low, rough, as if the words scraped from his throat.

I reached up to hold his chin, meeting his stare in the mirror.

I nodded, the words I’d held in dancing across my tongue, pressing against my teeth, ready to be set free?—

Instead, I ducked from under his arm, pressing a kiss to his shoulder as I left.

Padding across our room in one of his tunics, I retrieved the parcel hidden beneath a loose floorboard. The linen brushed against my thighs, and I watched his eyes linger there for a moment before snapping to the silver-wrapped gift now lying on the bed.

He approached it as one would a serpent readying to strike.

“It won’t bite,” I teased, throwing his words back at him.

Aspen carried himself with such assuredness, such overwhelming confidence at times, that seeing him hesitate always was unnerving. His long fingers peeled away the paper with delicate precision, revealing the smooth grey cover.

“A sketchbook?” He flipped through the blank pages, unblinking.

“I’ve been working on a solution,” I explained, fingering the locket’s chain. The gift felt foolish now. Minuscule, in light of his own.

“I applied it to the pages. The paper won’t cut your hands anymore, and the ink should remain smudge-free—without compromising the texture.”

It had taken weeks of trials to craft something that met my requirements without changing the experience of sketching. Another thing he was incessantly dramatic about—huffing and cursing over every new drawing that failed to match the vision in his head. His frustration with the constant ink smears, though endearing, usually sent him into a tirade about ‘quality supplies’ every time he sat down to work.

As for the papercuts—I did not wish any new scars for him.

He didn’t blink, didn’t so much as breathe. . I shifted on my feet, already racking my brain for a different—better—alternative.

The book slipped from his grasp.

I was airborne before it hit the floor. Spinning.

Aspen’s laughter filled the room, and I cupped his face, memorizing the resplendent sound.