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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

PYRAH

When Lark screams, my heartbeat stumbles before pounding back harder.

The raw frustration and anger in her voice is all too familiar. I peer out the window, my cheek resting against the cool glass. Outside, Lark stands with her head flung back, staring down the rain.

Rook reaches for Lark’s shoulder, no doubt trying to comfort his sister, though he doesn't touch her yet. When he speaks, his voice remains too quiet for me to catch any of the words. Some of the tension sags from Lark’s body.

I turn my back on the window, since they need a moment alone, and my attention returns to our prisoner. Zin watches me silently. Golden threads of the curse run through her skin, matching the pattern on Lark’s body.

“You're an evil witch,” I say.

“And this surprises you?” Zin sneers at me as if unimpressed by my insult. “I never pretended to be anything I wasn't.”

"What you did to Lark was unforgivable." I lean closer, letting her see the fire in my eyes. "You chained her life to yours.”

“Even Rook chained you in aellurium.”

I bristle at her words, though she isn’t wrong. “That was different.”

“Was it?”

I clench my hands into fists. "We were enemies."

“And Lark believes me to be her enemy.”

I glance toward the window. “What you did to Lark is beyond cruel. You have forced her to feel what you feel, to die when you die. She will never be free.”

When the door swings open, Lark storms into the cottage. Her gaze slides right past Zin as if she doesn’t even exist. Lark starts looting books from a shelf, building a stack that towers on the kitchen table.

Zin leans back in her chair, her chin lifted with defiance. "You won't find what you’re looking for there.”

“Be quiet,” Lark snaps. “There’s always a countercurse.”

“This curse cannot be broken."

“Don’t make me hex you into silence.”

Zin’s mouth twists. “We would both?—”

“I know.”

Rook clears his throat behind me. I turn around and find him leaning against the doorframe. Rain clings to his long silver hair. He meets my eyes before tilting his head toward the outside.

"Pyrah,” he says. “Come with me.”

I glance between Lark and Zin. The tension in the room strains like a bowstring pulled too tight. I would be a fool not to take this chance to escape. As I pass Rook in the doorway, his hand brushes the small of my back. Though it’s a simple gesture, it sends shivers down my spine.

After far too many lonely nights, I crave everything about him.

I follow him outside. The sweet scent of rain on grass fills the meadow. Bolt whinnies softly at Rook. There’s a small stable at the cottage, nearly the size of a garden shed, though it’s enough to shelter Bolt from the weather.

Rook finds his saddlebags waiting for him in the corner and digs through them. His movements are efficient. He must know exactly where everything is. When he pulls out a brush, Bolt's ears perk up.

“Hello, lady.” Rook murmurs the words in a gruff yet tender way. Bolt pushes her nose into his chest, and Rook rubs her muzzle. "Missed you, too.”

He starts brushing his horse in long, steady strokes. Mud and rain have matted her black coat, but Rook works through each tangle with infinite patience. She shifts her weight, leaning into his touch. Her tail swishes with contentment. His hair falls forward as he works, partially hiding his face.

"She carried me through three kingdoms when I was hunting a basilisk," Rook says, not looking up from his work. "Never complained once, even when we found the monster in a burrow choked with blood and bones.”

“I believe you,” I say, wondering how far he has traveled on his quests before. “Will you go back to hunting monsters?”

Rook’s hands pause for a moment before continuing to brush his horse. “No.” He grunts. “Not unless I have no other choice. It’s hard, dirty work, and none of it ever made me less of a monster myself.”

He moves to Bolt's other side. There's something calming about watching him care for his horse. His hands move with practiced ease across her coat, brushing away mud until her dark coat gleams even in the dim light.

His horse nuzzles him as if thanking him. He kisses the white blaze on her nose, the shape reminiscent of a lightning bolt. He’s such a sweetheart whenever he’s with his horse, and she clearly loves him in return.

I comb some of his loose hair from his eyes. My hand drops to his jaw before running over the silver beard that has grown during his captivity. It softens the sharp angles of his jaw, making him look wilder, more dangerous—and somehow more vulnerable, too.

“I should shave,” Rook says. “Need to get rid of this stubble.”

“Beard,” I say, correcting him, “and I think it looks good on you.”

Rook’s eyes shutter. “It reminds me of the dungeon.”

My stomach tightens at his words. Every time he touches his face, he must remember his time imprisoned at the queen’s mercy. The length of his beard marks the days of his suffering.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to remind you.”

He shakes his head, his expression guarded. “No need for apologies.”

“Could I help you forget?” I touch his jaw with tentative fingertips.

“How so?”

“With the shaving, I mean.”

His eyebrows jump higher. “Have you done this before?”

Heat creeps into my cheeks. “Not yet.”

“I can teach you.” His mouth quirks with a hint of amusement. “I should have a cutthroat razor that will work just fine.”

He unpacks his shaving things, then beckons for me to follow him. We wind down a path through ferns that drip with raindrops. By the river, a small stone building perches on the bank. Steam fogs the glass in the windows.

“The bathroom?” I ask.

Rook nods. “Not sure how we missed it that night. Too much demon wine.”

The door groans open beneath his hand. My breath catches as we enter together. This doesn’t look like any bathroom I have ever seen. Everything has been carved from gleaming white quartz, even what must be the toilet. The bathtub looks more like a fountain, with carved stone fish spitting water.

“The water’s always hot,” Rook says. “Magic.”

I dip my fingers into the tub, marveling at the perfect warmth. “This is nicer than the royal baths at Hexfall.”

"Don't let Lark hear you say that." Rook smiles. “Once she starts bragging about her magic, she won’t stop.”

Through the window, I watch rain ripple across the river while Rook prepares his shaving supplies.

He kneels on the floor and arranges a cutthroat razor, a bar of pine soap, and a hand mirror.

He lathers the soap and rubs the suds over his jaw in a well-practiced ritual.

He’s letting me in to this quiet moment of intimacy.

“Come here.” He picks up the razor. “Like this.”

His thumb presses into his cheek, pulling the skin taut. With his other hand, he shaves away the edge of his beard, revealing the silver beneath. He holds out the cutthroat razor to me and I take it by the handle.

“Now you,” he says.

I kneel before him. My hands are trembling slightly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I trust you,” he says.

With my free hand, I press my fingertips against his cheek, trying to copy his movements.

Slowly, carefully, I bring the razor to his skin.

He doesn’t even flinch, his breathing slow and even, as he allows me to shave him.

I rinse the razor between strokes. My movements become steadier, more confident.

More and more of his silver skin emerges. More of the Rook I remember.

When I reach his throat, he tilts his head back, exposing the vulnerable line of his neck to the blade. I shave him with intense concentration, never cutting him, not even once, until finally he’s rid of the beard.

“There,” I whisper, setting aside the razor. “Like we first met.”

He splashes water in his face, washing away the last traces of his time in the dungeon. “Thank you.”

My fingers trace the strong line of his jaw, marveling at how smooth his skin feels now. I pick up the bar of soap and take a deep whiff of the spicy scent. “That’s why you always smell like pines.”

He catches my hand and presses a kiss to my palm. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the purple soulstone Lark gave him. It catches the light, throwing violet reflections across the walls.

“I want you to have this,” he says, rubbing the facets of the soulstone between his fingers. “Would you like to wear it? On a chain around your neck, perhaps?”

My heart aches at his words. I forget how to breathe. This moment feels significant, like a promise of our future together.

But I whisper, “I can’t.”

His brow furrows. “Why not?”

“I’m a dragon shifter.” A broken little laugh escapes me. “My transformation would break the chain and lose the soulstone.”

Understanding dawns in his eyes. “Of course.” His fist closes around the soulstone. “We can’t risk losing something so precious. Not until we find kelrial .”

“Keep it,” I say. “Wear it for me.”

“For us both.”

My eyes well with tears. “I love you, Rook.”

He embraces me. Some things need no words.

Darkness falls and brings with it more rain that drums against the roof of Lark’s cottage.

The sound should lull me to sleep. Late at night, Rook and I lie together on the floor.

The fire crackles low in the hearth. My fingers find Rook’s hand in the shadows.

I squeeze it tight, trying to comfort myself.

"Can't sleep?" His voice rumbles against my back.

“No,” I whisper. “I can’t stop thinking of Scaldric, no matter how hard I try.” My fingers touch the scars on my neck. “Can't stop remembering the pain.”

He lets out his breath in a rush. “I understand why you want to forget. You aren't ready to face him yet.”

I'm silent for a moment, pondering his words. Thinking of Scaldric fills me with dread, but I have never been one to run away from my fears.

“No,” I say softly. “I want to face him.”

“When?”

“Sooner rather than later.”

"Then we end this. Tomorrow.”

I roll over to meet his eyes. “How?”