Page 21

If you inspire suffering, you are no better than the monster you seek to destroy.

We walked back to the castle, my arm around Rook, supporting him. Entering through the library, I asked, “How are you feeling?” Rook unwound himself from me and stood on his own.

He hadn’t needed my help at all.

Rook unfurled the bandage from his throat.

The fabric had done a miraculous job; flawless skin remained.

Rolling his neck in a wide circle, Rook said, “Decades have come and gone. I have not been so well as I am now.” He reached out, brushing my hand.

Suddenly, Rook was too real, and all my plans seemed terribly foolish.

Stamping down the fluttering his proximity awakened, I fled to the desk.

“We should get back to your lessons.” I needed to fulfill this bargain; I had to get away from Rook as fast as I could. I grabbed a book—Rook placed his hand on mine, keeping the book on the desk.

“Look at me,” Rook murmured.

I’d been trying so hard not to look at him.

Swaths of blood covered his shirt; the white turned a ruddy brown. Rook squeezed my hand and coaxed me from the desk.

“We should wash ourselves.”

“Okay,” I muttered and let him pull me away.

Down in the kitchens, Rook placed a bucket of water next to the hearth. I bent to wash my arms but stopped when Rook touched my shoulder. “Please, allow me.” He dragged a stool over and sat.

“I can do it myself…” The words trailed away as Rook took my hand. So gentle yet firm, I don’t know that I could have slipped away if I tried. “Oh, very well.” He dipped a cloth in the water. His rough hands moved over mine, tugging blood from beneath my nails.

“Rook,” I started, my heart hammering, “how did you become the Hound?”

Engrossed in the therapy of his task, Rook didn’t bristle as I’d anticipated he would.

“I was hunting in the Hollow with my mother.” The memory quirked Rook’s lip in a fleeting smile.

The joy slipped away, gone as quickly as it came.

“Thin wolves attacked, and we were separated. As night fell, I found this place.” Rook waved lazily at the castle walls.

“I remember thinking how fortunate I was, that I was saved.” He laughed bitterly.

“I should have given myself to the wolves.”

I recalled the madness in Rook’s eyes when he’d screamed, ‘Did you eat the fruit?!’

I hadn’t, but…

“You ate it,” I murmured.

In a distant voice, Rook said, “It called to me, and I devoured it.” He dipped the cloth in the bucket, bringing warm water back to me.

“From that night forward, I was cursed.” Rook sighed, a lengthy breath that carried so many decades of grief.

“At first, I was unaware. It began as a hunger that no food might satisfy. That hunger soon turned unbearable and I… I changed for the first time. I tore through the Hollow, devouring anything in my path.” Staring at my hand, Rook paused.

His voice was so quiet, I had to lean closer when he whispered, “Every night I think about how broken my mother must have been when I never returned.”

“You never went back to her?”

Rook looked up at me, dirty and covered in dried blood. “How could I?” He laughed, his canines glinting in the firelight. “Better she believed me dead than see what I’d become.” He shook his head. “My mother was an unforgiving woman; she probably would have killed me herself… Rightly so.”

“And after all those years—even when you discovered you could evade the wolves and leave this place, you’ve chosen to remain here?”

“My exile is voluntary…but necessary,” Rook muttered. “It would be reckless to leave. If I tried to live amongst people, whose lives I’m eternally craving… I worry the swathes of corpses would be endless.” He sighed. “In some ways, it’s a cage of my own creation. But a cage nonetheless.”

I’d held the fruit. How easily that could have been me. I couldn’t help but picture my mother and Lottie, staring over the garden gate. Every night, waiting for me to return. Another Valet, fallen to the Hollow. No body to bury next to my father and Lysander.

Seeing Rook, an unrelenting wave of sympathy stung me. Why hadn’t he told me before?

Because he trusts you now.

He’d given me a piece of himself.

The fire crackled, and neither of us spoke. I wanted to—wanted to break the silence and stop his eyes from wandering up and landing on mine. I needed to disappear from his sight, stop the warmth from filling my cheeks each time he looked my way.

When my hand was cleaner than it had ever been, I nodded my thanks and backed away.

Rook stood and yanked his bloodied shirt off.

He admired the stained fabric and laughed.

“I’ll need magic to get that out.” He winked, but I barely saw it.

Sweat poured down Rook’s chest; it glistened along his stomach, all the way down…

Rook sat on the table and gestured to the wound on his side. “Care to take a closer look?”

I didn’t trust myself any closer to him than I already was.

Taking a half-step, I kept as much distance between us as possible.

The wound from the crossbow, though only a few days old, looked more like an ancient scar.

Had the fabric’s magic flowed through Rook’s veins and healed him completely?

A few stitches remained; I’d need to remove them.

I reached out but stopped myself, just before I touched him.

“That…” I gulped, my mouth suddenly dry. “That looks much better.”

Rook caught my hand.

His eyes—shining like faint mirrors—captured mine.

Rook brought my palm to rest on his chest. He was warm, his body so welcoming…

I didn’t pull away. Rook’s tongue traced his lips, and in the slightest move, his chin bobbed.

It was subtle; anyone else might have missed it had they not been looking for permission.

At once, Rook reached for me, and I led his face to mine. We met with such urgency, Rook struggled to remain on the table. He heaved me into his lap, and I straddled his waist, our lips never parting. With a grunt, Rook wrapped his arms around me, dragging me closer.

“Liliwen,” Rook breathed my name. It sent excitement trilling through me. His hand slid to my throat, wrapping it gently, keeping my face close to him. I kissed Rook harder, savouring the way he rose to meet me. “Say my name,” Rook whispered.

I parted long enough to mumble, “Rook,” back.

“That’s not my name.” Pain, not pleasure laced Rook’s voice.

I… I couldn’t say it. I knew the name, Everard , but my mouth wouldn’t do it. I slid my hands down Rook, hoping to distract him. They fell upon the faint scar and old stitches—my stomach knotted.

Have you forgotten why you’re here?

I tried to push the thought away. To focus on the present, on what was right here. Rook’s hand abandoned my throat, coming to a rest against my chest. While he kissed me, his palm remained there, savouring my fervent heartbeat.

The vision of myself, holding Rook’s beating heart, struck me like a blow.

I pulled away and Rook followed me, as a flower might chase the sun. His body—firm and inviting—begged me to stay. I slid from Rook’s lap. Hoping to hide my laboured breathing, I covered my mouth. Lying to Rook was one thing, but this? This was torture.

“What’s the matter?” Concern marred Rook’s features. “Are you alright?”

“I-I’m fine,” I replied, tugging my hands through my hair.

Rook had already promised to aid my escape, and surely when I came back, he would trust me enough to be close to him.

This ruse had gone far enough; I would injure Rook no more than I had to.

Through heavy breaths, I said, “I’m—I’m glad your wounds are healing well.

” Looking down, I smoothed my trousers. “The pain won’t distract you from reading. ”

“Liliwen.” Rook slid from the table and started toward me.

“I’ll meet you in the library,” I said, raising my palms.

As I left Rook to dress himself, one question plagued me.

Who reached for the other first?

***

Curled by the fire with a book, I read and re-read the same sentence. I dreaded and anticipated Rook’s footsteps.

Would he be upset?

When I’d stumbled into this place, I hadn’t given a damn about Rook’s feelings.

Now, I couldn’t bear the thought of him being angry with me.

The faintest footfalls carried through the library.

Those unfamiliar with Rook wouldn’t have heard them, but I did.

I blocked out every noise and listened for his almost soundless approach.

I fought the urge to turn and look at him, though a loud dragging forced me to.

Rook relocated the second chair next to mine, so close the arms ground one another when he sat.

Rook’s features were free of judgment when he said, “May I?” and took the book. He positioned it so I might see the words. “Can you start?”

I frowned. “You should be trying to read yourself.”

“Please.”

I hardened myself against Rook’s hopeful smile…

but it was me, not Rook, who sighed and submitted.

And so, I read aloud while Rook trailed the words.

We continued our story, a tale from long ago, when magic was high.

Rook’s hand drifted to my wrist; he brushed my skin while I read.

Focusing became difficult; I longed to touch him, to trail my fingers along the veins snaking up his arm.