Page 36 of The Rebel and the Rose (The City of Fantome #2)

‘I think it matters more than anything,’ she said, an edge of desperation to her voice.

She reached for his hands, pulling them into her lap.

His shadow-marks were so dark against the perfect sheen of her skin.

He hated them for it. Hated himself. ‘Ransom, if you kill a saint, I don’t think you can come back from it.

’ She brushed the whorl along his thumb, tracing it to the underside of his wrist. ‘It’s bound to change you irrevocably.

Shred through you worse than all of these already do. ’

He dropped his head, lost to her feather-light touch. ‘It’s already too late for me, Seraphine. I can’t come back from the wicked things I’ve done. Let me finish this.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ she said, threading her fingers through his, squeezing, as though to press her hope into his skin. ‘Isn’t there a part of you that wants to try? What if all of this is some kind of test? A chance to do the right thing and remake your destiny one last time?’

His smile was rueful. ‘You always were good at fairy tales.’

She gently laid his hands down, turning again to the cards. ‘If kingdoms can be remade, so can destinies.’ She traced the rose that sat between them. ‘You spend all this time trying to save me. Can’t you see that I’m trying to do the same for you?’

But there was one crucial difference, and despite her pretty words and grand dreams, she must have known it; only one of them was worth saving.

Ransom let the silence settle, too tired to argue over the life of a rebellious prince, though he knew the matter was not yet at rest.

He stayed beside her, stretching his legs out as she gathered up her cards.

Glimpses of saints that might yet change the face of the kingdom or drop at the mercy of his Shade.

There was too much to think about, and all he wanted to do was talk of something else.

Anything else. Take this moment of speech and stretch it out, allow them both a reprieve from the ever-swinging pendulum of death and destiny.

Even if it was fleeting. Even if it wasn’t real.

He didn’t know how long this would last, the whisper of freedom between them, the sense that the world had stopped turning, if only for a little while. It was a gift to be alone with her, and he didn’t want to squander it by arguing.

She must have been having the same thought because she flopped backwards, patting the rug beside her. ‘Lie down, Dagger,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘Let’s marvel at the moon together. It might tell us what we’re supposed to do.’

He lay down next to her, one hand tucked behind his head, the other brushing the side of her hip. Absently he threaded his finger in her belt loop, like some part of him was afraid she might float away. He turned to look at her. Her eyes were wide, riveted. ‘Copper for your thoughts.’

She nipped at her bottom lip. ‘I was just thinking of how tired I am of arguing with you.’

‘I suggest a truce.’ He tugged her closer by her belt loop, until their legs were touching, the rest of the courtyard falling away.

‘All right. But only until the whiskey wears off.’

‘You barely even drank any whiskey.’

‘It tasted like lava.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I couldn’t stomach it.’

‘But you can stomach this,’ he said quietly. ‘ Us .’

Why else would she still be fighting for his future?

‘That’s never been the problem,’ she admitted.

‘I just know that I’m afraid, Ransom. I’m afraid all the time.

’ She turned back to the sky, her brows drawn.

‘I get these recurring nightmares,’ she said, in a faraway voice.

‘Sometimes, I find myself in other people’s heads…

Falling from that clock tower back at the Appoline or trapped and choking in the dirt… it makes me feel like I’m going mad.’

He took her hand, folding it in his own. He knew little of saints and destiny, but nightmares were second nature to him. He had known them all his life. ‘If you’re mad, then they haven’t come up with a word to describe what I am.’

She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘When I sleep, I see monsters. Predators with dripping fangs and razor claws, surrounding me in my bed. Snapping at my feet. Tearing at my skin.’ Lately, the nightmares had been constant.

Some nights they were so bad, he refused to sleep at all, sitting red-eyed and exhausted in his bed, waiting for the sun to come up.

‘Sometimes, I see my father, red-faced and cursing, his cruel fists raised like weapons. I can even smell the spirits on his breath. In those dreams, I’m still a boy, hiding under my bed. And every time he finds me.’

‘Ransom,’ she said softly.

‘I don’t know which monster is worse,’ he confided. ‘The one that chased me into this life with his cruel fists. The ones that prowl like panthers in my head as I sleep. Or the one I know I’m becoming.’

‘You’re not a monster.’ She squeezed his hand, her grip fierce. ‘Those nightmares are your fears. They’re not who you are.’

His smile was grim. ‘What if they’re one and the same?’

‘You’re not a monster,’ she repeated. ‘You’re just…

stuck .’ There was a desperation in her voice, like she wanted so badly to unstick him.

Like she didn’t quite know how. He looked again at their hands, her pale slender fingers so small against the shadow-stained canvas of his own.

Her grip as fierce as the look in her eyes.

‘You are better than this life, Ransom. You are meant for more than the Order of Daggers.’

‘Once, maybe.’ But did he deserve it now?

Now, after everything he had done. He thought of all the vials he’d downed in his life, how weak he’d been as a child, how desperately he had fought to survive in the underworld.

But the moment Dufort died, freedom was his to take.

And he had turned his back on it, losing himself once more in Shade.

Consuming more than he had ever had before.

Enough to cover himself with scars and fill his dreams with monsters he could no longer outrun.

He wondered if they would always be a part of him, these ravenous creatures that liked to gnaw at the ribbons of his soul.

‘Still,’ she said. And then again, ‘You are still meant for more than this.’ She lifted his hand to her mouth, kissing the shadow-mark along his palm.

A shudder worked through him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

‘When you are ready to be a rebel and not a Dagger, you will finally be free.’

She said it like a spell. He had never wanted to believe in anything so badly.

They were closer now, their heads brushing, their hands intertwined. ‘Enough about nightmares,’ she said, turning back to the moon. ‘I want to talk about dreams.’

‘I think I’m in one right now.’

‘Perhaps you are the real Silver-tongue,’ she said, a smile in her voice. ‘Tell me something true, Ransom. Where would you go with your freedom?’

‘Ferrera,’ he said, without hesitation. A small island about a day’s crossing from the south harbour, Ferrera was renowned for its natural, rugged beauty.

Over the centuries, it had been a home to some of the greatest artists on the continent, inspiring several of his favourite landscapes. Places he longed to see in the flesh.

‘I’d like to visit the orange groves in the east, walk the winding white cliffs and smell the wildflowers on the coast. If the weather holds, I’d take a boat out to the sea caves and see what inspiration I might find there.’

She hmm’d. ‘Just you and your paintbrush? How romantic.’

And you .

In another life .

‘I had a pin in Ferrera,’ she said, dreamily. ‘My bedroom used to be covered in maps of the world. I marked all the places I wanted to see before I died.’

‘Like where?’ he said, propping his head on his hand and turning on his side to watch her eyes light up.

‘Like everywhere,’ she said, her breath hitching.

‘I want to ride the wild horses of Urnica. Explore the bustling market streets of Paresi. Climb the highest Silvercrest and picnic with the hawks. Steal a bicycle in Liefdam and ride along the canals, wear a ballgown to the Festival of Lights in Borea and dance until my feet fall off. And that’s just off the top of my head! ’

Ransom grinned like a fool, imagining her twirling her way through the Festival of Lights, like a sunbeam come to life.

‘Does this mean you’re a good dancer?’

A gleeful shake of her head. ‘No, but that’s half the fun of it. Right?’

‘Even better when you’re good at it,’ he teased. ‘And I would know. I am an incredible dancer.’

She huffed a laugh. ‘Why do I find that hard to believe?’

‘Because you insist on seeing the worst in me.’

‘No.’ She rose up, propping her head on her hand. ‘The real trouble is, I see the best in you. I see Bastian.’

She whispered his true name like a prayer. He wanted her to say it again and again, to pull him back to that version of himself.

‘You like that,’ she murmured. ‘I can see it in your eyes.’

‘It does something to my chest,’ he murmured. ‘Or maybe that’s just you.’

She drew nearer, magic sparking in her eyes.

And froze.

‘It’s all right,’ he said, gently tipping her chin. Her lips were so close, soft and plump and begging to be kissed.

She hesitated. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘You won’t.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘Because you don’t want to.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s not about what I want.’

‘That’s the thing,’ he said, brushing his nose against hers. ‘I think it is. Deep down. I think that’s the secret.’

The air grew close, the heat of her body rolling against his. She swallowed thickly, wrestling with her desire. Even as it turned her eyes gold, made her cheeks pink. ‘This… feels dangerous.’

He smiled against her cheek, pressing a kiss there. ‘You forget, spitfire. I like to burn.’

He felt her lips curve, the soft breath of her words on his mouth. ‘Let’s see if that holds true.’