Page 49

As I pick my way back to camp, the bonfire blazes high, its dancing flames limning the world in shades of amber and crimson.

Each step sends agony searing through me, but I grit my teeth and press on.

The pain is grounding. Familiar. A reminder that, despite everything, I’m still breathing. Still here.

When I reach the circle of firelight, Sorcha is waiting for me. Her eyes, green and pitiless, rake over me. Taking my measure. Cataloguing each new hurt.

“You look ghastly,” she drawls when I’m close enough.

I meet her stare, unflinching. “Forgive me if the outward signs of grief appear foreign, but this is how sorrow looks on those burdened with a human heart.”

Something ripples across Sorcha’s features. There and gone in a flash, but I catch it—a crack in the mask, a glimpse of the truth. Just like that, my anger gutters out. I think of Lonnrach’s body, growing cold in the prison realm. Of the wet crunch as Aithinne tore out his heart.

“I’m sorry,” I say, so soft it’s nearly lost beneath the pop and hiss of the flames. “About Lonnrach. I know you allowed his death, but it couldn’t have been easy. Watching him die like that.”

Silence unspools between us, broken only by the restless murmur of the fire. Sorcha turns her face into that warmth and light, her profile etched in crimson and amber.

“I know what he did to you,” she says, voice rough. “What he took. That he defiled your bond with Kadamach.” Her lips twist. “In the Unseelie Court, his crimes would warrant execution a thousand times over.”

I flinch, unable to stop the memories from surging up. The violation of Lonnrach forcing his way into my mind. Peeling back layer after layer.

“So I allowed you your vengeance,” Sorcha continues, relentless as the tide. “I let you settle that debt in blood. For the pain Arion and the others caused you. For your winged friend.” She pauses, throat working. “I’m sorry.”

A bitter, rasping laugh escapes before I can stop it. “Have you ever actually apologised for anything in your life, or am I the first witness to this historic event?”

The barest curve of her lips, devoid of any real warmth.

“Extreme circumstances occasionally require uncharacteristic responses.” Another pause, weighted.

“I mourn the brother I needed Lonnrach to be. The one who never existed, except in the desperate imaginings of a child watching her world burn down around her. He made his choices. He deserved his punishments.”

Sorcha turns to leave, to melt back into the skeletal trees and lick her wounds in private. But I can’t release her, not yet.

“I don’t forgive you,” I say. Soft but absolute. “I don’t think I ever really can.”

Something like regret flickers across her face, there and gone. She gives a single, sharp nod, and then she’s gone. Lost to the grasping shadows.

The scuff of boots announces Gavin’s presence as he settles onto the log beside me. Close, but carefully not touching. Still, his nearness is a comfort.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“No,” I manage.

“Right then. Suppose that’s fair enough.”

Firelight dances over the deep grooves and ridges of Gavin’s face. The scar slashing through his brow. His eyes are warm with empathy, with things left unspoken.

“Want me to send Aithinne to murder Sorcha for you?” he asks after a beat. “Reckon she’d enjoy the opportunity to get creative.”

That surprises a watery laugh out of me. “Tempting, but probably unwise.” I nudge him with my shoulder. “I do appreciate the offer, though.”

“Anytime. You know I’m always up for a spot of judicious murder between friends.”

Another lull. This one gentler. Easier in the lungs. I feel some of the tension bleed out of me by degrees. Feel myself unclenching bit by painful bit.

“Want me to clear out, leave you be for a bit?” Gavin asks gently.

The thought of being alone right now sends anxiety skittering down my spine.

“God, no. Please stay.”

Something soft and understanding settles over his features. “Of course. Whatever you need.” Gavin slips an arm around my shoulders and pulls me to his side. “Cry if you want. I promise I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone.”

I let my head droop onto his shoulder. And then I’m crying in earnest. Great, heaving sobs I can’t choke back, can’t contain. Gavin says nothing. Just remains still at my side.

Eventually, the tears slow, the ragged gasps easing into something adjacent to normal breath.

“Christ,” I say, “your shirt’s a mess now. I leaked a bloody ocean all over Kiaran last night too.”

Gavin shrugs. “Somehow, I doubt he minded overmuch. Which reminds me . . .” He pauses, searching for words. “Have you and MacKay discussed what happens next? After.”

After.

I pull back, my throat closing up. A cold, creeping dread uncurls behind my ribs because the truth is . . . I don’t know. I haven’t let myself think past the next laboured breath, the next faltering heartbeat.

Can’t bear to imagine Kiaran spending centuries at Sorcha’s side, shackled by the vow she extracted. Serving a sentence in exchange for my life.

And that’s if I even survive. If my mortal body doesn’t break apart at the seams, magic scouring me from the inside out until I’m nothing but rotten scaffolding held together by stubbornness and spite.

“Marchioness.” Gavin starts to say something else, but I cut him off.

“I haven’t really . . . I mean, there hasn’t exactly been time to . . .” I can’t finish. Each word is a stone in my throat. “I’m dying.”

I’ve never seen Gavin lost for words before.

He makes a low, pained sound. “Does MacKay know?”

I blink hard against the sudden sting. “About me dying. Not that using my powers kills me faster.”

Movement snags my gaze, and my heart clenches. It’s Kiaran. Watching from across the flames, features carved from ice and shadow. And he heard. I can see it in the harsh line of his mouth. The barely leashed violence.

I’m up and staggering after him before I’ve fully registered moving.

“Kiaran, wait—”

But he’s already gone, vanishing into the night. I curse, breaking into a run. He’s fast, but I’m stubborn.

“There’s not much farther you can go in this direction,’ I say when I catch up with him. “Unless you plan to fling yourself into the abyss.”

Then he turns to face me. His expression is remote, giving nothing away. But his eyes—

Ah. There it is. Fury .

“When were you going to tell me? When did you plan to share that using the Cailleach’s power brought you closer to death every time?” he asks. The words fall into the quiet. Rippling out, out. Designed to cut, to bruise. “ When did you plan to tell me that saving us, saving me , was costing you?”

I can’t stop myself from flinching at the accusation. “There didn’t seem a right time—”

“Of course not. The opportune time to admit you were carving off pieces of your limited lifespan never did present itself, did it?” he practically snarls, crowding into my space until I can feel the heat of him.

The thrum of leashed power crackling along my skin.

“Far kinder to wait. To let me find you cold and empty. Nothing but a silent husk for me to shake and scream at until my voice gives out. I’ve already done that before, haven’t I? ”

“That’s not fair. Or at all what I had in mind—”

“No? Tell me, Kameron. What exactly did you imagine?”

“Less ‘gentle swooning’ and more ‘savagely dismembered by an ancient death goddess’.” I dredge up a weak smile. “Rather gorier overall. Considerably more viscera.”

“You’re not nearly as amusing as you think,” he says flatly. “This isn’t one of your gothic novels, all doomed romance and dramatic deathbed declarations. This is your life .”

The accusation lances through me, steals my breath. Because he’s not wrong.

His jaw clenches. Unclenches. “You used that power to shatter my weapons. Let me hold you down and tear into your throat after you’d already spent god knows how much of yourself saving us.

” He drags a hand over his face. “Do you know what that does to me? To know our bond is severed, and I can’t heal you? ”

I step into him. Slide my arms around his waist and press my face to the warmth of his chest. Breathing him in.

“I’ve always known I’d die badly,” I say, softly now. Gently. “Our bond let me cheat death longer than most Falconers. We die young. You know that.” I twist my hands into his shirt. “Our time was always going to be measured in short years,” I whisper.

Careful fingers trace my cheek. Follow the curve of my jaw, the arch of my brow. Like he’s committing this to memory—something small and precious to carry with him through all the long centuries ahead.

“I’ve never measured us in years,” he murmurs into my hair. “Only in moments. I want to hoard every one. Every scrap of time with you until I have no more to give.”

His mouth finds mine, desperate and aching. I feel the nip of his teeth, the tender soothing of his lips. Sipping me, tasting me. Breathing me in like he can memorise the shape of me. The scent and feel, seared into his bones.

As if we could find eternity in minutes.