Page 39 of The Second Death of Locke

She laughed, the sound aching inside of her. “I’m your power. Too much power. If you lose me, you’ll never do magic again.” She didn’t know why she was saying this, why it hurt so much. She wanted to curl up here and for them to leave her alone, for her shame to consume her whole.

“You say it like that’s all it is,” he said.

She stared up at the ceiling, thick thatch and mud. “Isn’t it? No matter what we are—you’re my mage. I’m your Hand. Perhaps we were fools, all those years ago. It’s a piteous thing, to only draw from one person forever and ever, to expect that.”

He paused. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Do you really think that? Do you really think I think that?”

She couldn’t be certain where all this bitterness was coming from—maybe it was from death being such a close thing, the grip of it still cold on her neck; perhaps it was the memory of Locke behind her eyes, the press of Severin’s hands in the moments before everything went dark.

He’d only been fifteen when he died, still just a boy.

He never grew up into anything because he tried so hard to save her, and what had she done?

Killed him, just like she’d killed everyone else who ever loved her.

All the power of Locke, and she’d squandered it—and for what?

Maybe it was because she knew in her heart that they could not retire to the countryside. There was no peaceful happiness in their future. She had never felt more certain of that fact, and she mourned the loss of it with a raw desperation she barely understood.

She was the heir to Locke, and she was bound to Kier, and she would drag him right down with her.

“Go away, Kier,” she said.

“Do you think,” Kier said, furious but level, “that I regret binding to you? That I regret taking you as my Hand? That I regret all of the lives we’ve taken, so that we could survive? Do you think I don’t know what it means to be yours?”

She opened her eyes, met his gaze. There was that anger again, so rare, so beautiful in vitality. She felt so lost and he was so goddam alive.

“No,” she said. She clawed for something, feeling desperately the weight of all those heartbeats silenced. She could not analyze the last part of his speech—it would be her undoing. “You have seen the worst of me. You cannot…” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

Kier looked at her, and she felt something open up inside of her, something that made a flood of warmth bloom in her chest, that killed that sprout of bitterness.

It took her a moment to realize that the emotion was coming from him, emanating from the tether.

It was that earlier feeling, that warmth, but so much stronger. So much more .

She remembered the press of his mouth against hers, the desperation in his kiss when she was certain they were going to die.

“Kier?”

“Grey, beloved, you absolute fool—if that was the worst of you, then you remain a saint among us.” He shook his head wonderingly. “And I have been trying to make you see me as more than your mage for six years now.”

She could not believe this. She could not understand the high color in his cheeks, the light in his eyes.

He was so far away from her, the entire distance of her body, and it felt like miles.

Even if she wanted to cross them, she wasn’t sure her bones would agree, so she kept her cautious distance.

She needed to know that she understood, that she wasn’t scaring him into a confession he didn’t mean now that he knew what she was capable of.

“I adore you,” he said, all in a rush. “No—no. Listen. I… I’m in love with you.

I’ve been in love with you for years, maybe forever.

Sometimes it’s all I can think about, and I can’t breathe because it’s so heavy on my chest that I…

I might be holding it alone, the only thing about you I can’t be certain of. It’s agony, Grey, the not knowing.”

She could only stare at him blankly as the words clicked uselessly against her brain. She could not imagine it, him saying this to her, him thinking that she could not immediately feel the same.

Kier let out a breath. “Okay. It’s over. It’s done. I will… go.”

He stood awkwardly, that knee giving him trouble, and despite the wrongness in her spine, Grey lunged forward and caught him around the waist.

“Captain Seward,” she said, holding fast as he dropped to his knees and turned to face her. He kept his other hand on her ribs for stability—she was grateful, because she wasn’t sure how she’d remain upright otherwise. “You fucking cretin.” Panic flickered across his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He laughed, the noise more of a scoff, harsh and disappointed and maybe even disbelieving. “You never kissed back,” he said.

She sucked a breath, the realization running straight to her stomach.

He’d always been affectionate, yes—and she’d thought nothing of it.

But every time he’d touched her, every time he’d kissed her forehead or her temple or the back of her hand, every time he’d folded himself around her…

perhaps each moment had been its own confession.

And she, in her endless attitude of I bet you say that to all the girls and at least half of the boys , had utterly ignored it. She’d argued herself out of any possibility that even the most obvious sign was just another affection she didn’t deserve.

“Fucking seas, Kiernan,” she growled. Grey leaned across the chasm between them, grabbed him by the lapels of his worn coat, and pulled his mouth down to hers.

They’d kissed before—not like this, never like this, not even when he had kissed her the other day—but his lips to her lips in a move she always wrote off as chaste.

After battle, when they were alone again and alive, or sometimes before bed, when he’d kissed her temple and then her mouth.

He probably imagined he was stealing those kisses, Grey thought desperately, before any thoughts washed away in the overwhelming headiness of him.

He pulled her into him like he could sink into her skin and become one body.

His hands were on her waist, thumbs digging into her ribs, fingers against her vertebrae.

She tangled one hand in his hair, the other on his shoulder, mostly for balance.

Out of her blanket, there was so much of her skin against the fabric of his shirt and so little of his skin against hers.

She scrabbled at the bottom of his shirt, pulling it untucked so she could slide her hands over the planes of his stomach, her thumb rubbing against his newest scar.

She hissed as his lips went to her neck.

Something opened within her, the slice of a knife in the bottom of her stomach, and she felt the smallest shift as thin, staticky power returned to her.

She dug her fingers in, holding him against her.

He nipped her collarbone. “Don’t push yourself,” he murmured against her skin.

He kissed the edge of her jaw, the crest of her cheekbone.

“You’re still unwell.” He pulled away so he could look at her, and she shivered at the loss of warmth.

“And everyone is worried—I shouldn’t keep you to myself. ”

She moved her hands to his shoulders. “You could, if you want.”

He laughed, leaning forward to kiss her with an exuberant joy that she felt through the tether. “There will be time,” he promised.

But—as the ambush the other night handily demonstrated—there was no guarantee of that. Grey pushed down the rush of uncertain sadness and managed a smirk. “I’m surprised we made it this long without interruption.”

“Ah, I gave very strict instructions.”

He helped her back against the wall and wrapped the blanket over her shoulders.

“Kier,” she said.

“Yes?”

“You don’t hate me?”

“I could never hate you,” he said, so sincerely it physically hurt.

“I mean, even now you know what I am.”

He was silent for a long moment, watching her face. “I’ve always known what you were,” he said finally, carefully. “Perhaps I didn’t always know what it meant, what it meant you could do , but it changes nothing.”

Grey nodded, letting herself relax. If Kier said it, above all, she believed him.

He stroked her hair tenderly, pausing after a moment, a smile spreading across his face. “Hand,” he said wearily, “do you ever not have blood in your hair?”

She tipped her nose up, grasping his hand. “Perhaps I could be convinced to try harder. Maybe during retirement?”

He leaned down and kissed her once more, a promise of things to come. “It can’t happen fast enough,” he said.

It was Ola who came in first, Grey’s healer’s kit in hand. Her mouth was set in a grim line and she had dirt streaked across one cheek.

“Lie back, Captain,” she said. Grey did, sliding back on the tangle of fabric.

She’d discovered after Kier left that it was a heap of coats protecting her from the wood floor, and had to bite her lip at the rush of emotion that came when she realized that everyone had donated their coat in this cold for the sake of keeping her warm.

She pressed her lips together as Ola moved down to palpate her abdomen. “Was anyone else hurt? I can—”

“ Captain.” Ola pinched her side. “Stop being a hero and let us take care of you,” she said, exasperated.

Grey stopped trying to be a hero. She stared straight up at the thatch ceiling as Ola sat back on her heels to carefully brew a tea to ease her pain.

“Why ‘Captain?’” she asked, despite herself.

“Hmm?”

She propped herself up on her elbows, wincing, ignoring the scowl Ola aimed in her direction. “You have been calling me Captain, not Hand. Pretty much since the inn. That’s Kier’s title, not mine.”

Ola blinked at her owlishly. She handed over the hot mug and Grey propped her shoulder against the wall to give herself stability to drink. “I suppose,” Ola said finally, “we see you as equals. You and Kier.”

Grey gagged a little at the salty taste of the tea. “Do we have anything to consume that isn’t ghastly?” she muttered.