Page 17 of Grim and Oro (Lightlark)

THIS DAMNED DRESS

Gods help me.

I asked Astria to find a gown suitable for the event at Creetan’s Crag.

The celebration lasts hours, and my people are known for wearing intricate, unrestricted clothing.

I haven’t gone in decades. I barely remember what is considered appropriate.

I know nothing about dresses, really. I never really paid attention to them, until her.

I could feel my general’s curiosity, but she agreed without question.

Now, the evening of the event, I make a mental note to either go down on my knees and thank Astria ...

Or kill her.

Isla is standing in front of me in hardly any fabric at all, in my realm’s color , and for a moment, I can’t breathe. The dark fabric barely covers her chest. A slit in the skirt shows the smooth skin of her thigh, almost up to its apex and I have to remind myself to blink while I stare at her.

She is stunning. Singularly, uniquely, stunning.

I want to show off her beauty to the entire world.

I want to kill anyone who glances in her direction.

I want to lock her in my room forever.

I want her in a possessive, tender way that frightens me.

Because I shouldn’t want anything the way I want her.

The Creetan’s Crag celebration is a sort of masquerade. We are disguised. She is wearing a mask, but those green eyes ... I would know that color anywhere. Those eyes haunt my dreams.

They haunt my life .

“Do I look Nightshade?” she asks, sounding a bit panicked, as if she thinks the closeness of my study is because something is wrong.

Yes , I think.

The dress was a damned mistake.

She looks like my wife.

I banish the thought instantly. Wife? What am I thinking? First the thought of the necklace ... now this?

Nightshade rulers don’t take wives.

They certainly don’t take Wildling wives.

Though here she is, looking like she would fit perfectly beside me.

Fit perfectly in every sense .

I fight to keep my voice from sounding strained as I say, “It’ll do.”

The sword can sense my powers. There is a chance it will be there tonight, so I’m not supposed to use them. As a precaution, I portal us to a location more than three miles from Creetan’s Crag, and we walk the rest of the way. As we draw closer to the celebration, there’s screaming—

My arm juts out in front of Isla, on instinct. My blood goes cold. Roaring fills my ears—

But, as my vision settles, I see that the woman who was screaming ... is now smiling. She’s embracing someone in front of her. A friend.

My pulse is still racing.

The screaming—

Isla is like a balm, bringing me back into the present. An anchor, pulling me down, firmly, into this moment.

She is oblivious to any of my inner torments, but her presence alone is enough to help me take a full breath.

Instead of sinking into past traumas, I watch her.

I watch her eyes widen, as she takes in the celebration, her wonder abating my worry.

When she starts striding forward, through the crowd, I have no choice but to release the panic in my bones and walk with her.

Instruments peal through the daylight. I frown, the music needling in my brain.

She smiles , though. Once, I would have enjoyed a celebration like this.

I did occasionally on Lightlark, for that brief blip of time when I rid myself of any responsibility, and could actually feel every moment, without the weight of duty.

It’s only when we walk through the crowd that I fully comprehend what a poor decision this was. Everyone is admiring her, and I have to resist the urge to kill every single person in this place for daring to look.

But how could they not?

How could I blame them?

From the first time I saw her, she engraved herself into my very soul, scarred me far more than the wound from her blade ever could.

“How does it feel?” she whispers.

I glance over at her and have to physically stop myself from staring. “How does what feel?”

“Not being the scary, all-powerful Nightshade ruler anymore. In a crowd like this.” She finds the fact that I can’t use my powers amusing.

I give her a look. “I could still kill everyone here with my sword.” And I still might if they don’t take their eyes off what is mine .

“You couldn’t kill me.”

I look away, reminded by the fact that she will die. “Are you forgetting the results of our duel?”

“I didn’t hate you then as much as I do now. I’m sure that very fact would help me win.”

I resist the urge to use my powers, lest the sword be here, and I alert it to my presence. I do think that if I could read her emotions, I wouldn’t feel an ounce of hatred.

I know her expressions now. I can read her even without my powers, I realize.

I’ve never cared enough about a person to learn their expressions of emotions, what with my power. But I have learned her.

I have learned her .

“Is that so?” I ask, slightly amused.

“Absolutely,” she says, without any conviction whatsoever.

Interesting.

She asks me how we’re going to find the thief, and it is an ice-cold spring over my thoughts, a reminder that we are here to find the sword, not for amusement.

“We know he has a snake. How else are we supposed to find him?” She looks over at me, and gods, it feels good when she looks at me.

For a moment, I feel worthy, perhaps, of her notice.

“Do you know how to get information without cutting off hands?” She’s still not over what I did to the thief in the keep, apparently.

I do.

There’s a barmaid carrying drinks. I walk up to her in my mask, and she doesn’t know me.

None of these people know their ruler walks among them.

I ask her about the man with a snake. For some reason, this woman thinks it’s all right to touch me.

Her hand is on my arm, and I resist the urge to shudder.

I resist the urge to forcibly remove it.

I don’t like being touched by anyone, especially unexpectedly.

It only takes moments to get the information. And I can’t wait to see the look on Isla’s face when I show her that I can indeed get answers without use of my blade.

“I know where to find him.”

Instead of being impressed, she looks annoyed. I wonder what in the world I could have already done to upset her.

Perhaps my presence alone is enough.

“Good. Lead the way.”

We walk until we reach a presentation tent. There he is. Unmissable. A man with a snake draped across his chest.

He’s watching a show. I barely glance at the performers, dancing with sheer fabrics. They don’t hold my interest whatsoever.

“He seems preoccupied. How are we—”

That’s when the idea forms.

Will she admit she doesn’t have powers? Will she go through with this?

I glance at the dancers, then back at her. She seems to get my meaning immediately. I barely resist the urge to laugh as her expression turns from surprised to horrified.

“Absolutely not , you cursed demon—”

I shrug. “Then we’ll find another way. I just thought, you being a temptress and all, you could use your powers, since I’m unable to use mine.”

I’m baiting her.

Tell me the truth , I want to say. Trust me .

Another part of me battles against it. Never trust me .

Here , I think desperately. Admit it. Admit you don’t have powers, or prove me wrong , please prove me wrong. Tell me this thing I feel in my chest, this understanding that I actually have a heart and I want to give it to you, is a lie .

I watch panic shift her features for just a moment, until she relaxes them into indifference. Her chin lifts in defiance.

She won’t admit it. Of course she won’t.

It makes me like her more. My hearteater is as stubborn and proud as I am.

She doesn’t want to get on that stage. “Can’t you just torture the information out of him?”

Now she wants me to resort to my blades?

Interesting. “Of course I can, Hearteater. But one of the most infamous thieves, one of the only people who know about the sword, turning up dead in such a violent fashion? It would be suspicious ...” I shrug.

“I suppose, if you are unable to actually use your powers —”

Her voice is outraged. “Of course I can.”

“It’s fine. We’ll find another—”

That gets her furious.

“No.” I see the determination on her face to prove me wrong. Her anger making her bold. She shoves her starstick at me. “Take this from me, and you’ll see my other Wildling curses in action,” she says.

She means eating my heart.

Doesn’t she know she already has it?

Still, I accept her starstick and watch as she makes her way through the dense crowd to the platform ahead, surprised she’s actually doing it. She disappears behind a curtain.

The moment she steps on the stage, in a skirt and hardly anything else, I am well and truly gone. Because she has no powers.

Yet she has bewitched me entirely.

She is not cursed to take the hearts of men, but I have given her mine willingly.

I’ve never held anything dearly, yet she holds my full attention.

She meets my gaze, and I feel powerless myself. Because I am defenseless against these feelings.

I’m not sure I’m breathing. She has taken my breath away, my soul, my heart, my focus, my everything— and she doesn’t even know it.

She’s my enemy, but she could be my savior too.

She could ruin me.

And I just might thank her for it.

Her eyes are fixed on mine. Her red lips part, and I want to feel that gasp on my skin. Her arms twirl above her head, she shifts her hips, she arches her back.

For a few moments the world doesn’t exist, my duty doesn’t exist, and I have the urge to use my powers to portal her away—sword be damned—to take her somewhere where I can worship her entirely.

Then, all at once, our gaze breaks. The man with the snake has tugged on her skirt.

I have never wanted to kill someone more in my life.

Before I can even take a single step forward, she’s gone.

I pace around, trying to give her time. Trying to give her space. Reminding myself that even though all my thoughts belong to her, she does not belong to me.

Why does that make me want to level a mountain?