Total pages in book: 247
Estimated words: 235897 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1179(@200wpm)___ 944(@250wpm)___ 786(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 235897 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1179(@200wpm)___ 944(@250wpm)___ 786(@300wpm)
472 AU, Willhaven, Braevick: With the exception of one house, the village was desiccated overnight by a single venin estimated to be a Sage. The only adult amongst the three survivors described her as, “Astonishingly ageless. Hair as black as the day we married, but in place of the age lines I’d expected were bulging scarlet veins branching outward from her red-ringed eyes.”
—The Resurgence of Evil, a timeline, by Pierson Haliwell
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Thunder rattles my bedroom windows the next night as I pore over the pages of the latest book Tecarus sent, letting my hair dry.
He hasn’t forgotten our deal even now that he’s king, and I’m not giving up on Xaden, especially when it’s clear he hasn’t given up on himself. The answer is out there somewhere, and we’ll find it. Having Brennan in the know only bolsters that hope. Maybe he can’t mend Xaden, but there’s never been a problem my brother couldn’t solve.
I glance over at the mess of practice runes on my desk and momentarily debate working on the delayed-activation rune Trissa spent most of the afternoon drilling into us. Its purpose is to take an existing, dormant rune and turn it “on” by tempering more magic into it. Its actual use? Nothing, since I can’t make the damned thing work.
Cat got it right on the first try.
Imogen followed quickly after.
Kai singed the ends of his spiky black hair.
Dain, Bodhi, Rhi, Ridoc…everyone eventually mastered one except me. Even Aaric, who has yet to manifest a signet, managed the intricacy of the lesser magic.
Whatever. We’re here for two weeks. Eventually I’ll get it right, and if I don’t, then that’s why we work in squads. I don’t have to be good at everything.
I tug the perpetually slipping strap of my Deverelli silk nightdress back up my shoulder and flip the page in Tecarus’s book. My brows rise at the next passage I read, and I go over it once more to be sure I’ve caught on to a pattern. That makes three.
Thunder sounds again, and power rises within me like it’s been called by a friend to come play. I watch the rain that seems to be coming in sideways from the east, then grab the conduit off my nightstand and let it flow.
Felix graduated the alloy in the center to the same size as those that power the daggers, and I may as well multitask and get his homework done while I read. Dunne knows he’s going to expect at least three of them to be imbued before hauling me up the mountains tomorrow for yet more practice. He’s training me like I’m the only thing standing between the venin and Aretia, and with the wards declining every day, I can’t fault him. With Xaden handling province matters in Lewellen, I’m the best we’ve got against Theophanie…at least offensively.
Someone knocks at my bedroom door.
I close the book and stash it on my nightstand with the conduit, then climb off my bed to answer the door. It’s after ten, which means it’s either Rhi wanting to chat like last night or Brennan looking for a partner to raid the kitchens. Either way, this gown is practically see-through, so I grab a robe from the armoire on my way.
Glittering onyx taps against my shields a breath away from the threshold, and I abandon the robe’s tie to yank open the door. My heartbeat stutters, then flies.
Xaden stands in the doorway in flight leathers, soaked to the bone, rain dripping from his hair. War rages in his eyes, like this is both the last and only place he wants to be.
“Hi.” My hand flexes on the door handle. “Why didn’t you tell me he was here?” I ask Tairn.
“You didn’t ask to be made aware of his arrival, only his departure.”
Fucking semantics.
“Tell me to go, and I will,” Xaden says, his voice coming out like it’s been scraped over coals. “It’s only been seventy-three days.”
“Come here.” I let the handle go and step back to make space. “You must be freez—”
One second he’s standing in the hallway, and the next, his hands are in my hair and his mouth is on mine.
Gods, yes. His lips are cold, but his tongue is deliciously warm as it strokes into my mouth. The kiss wakes up every nerve ending in my body and reminds me just how long it’s been since Deverelli. Between traveling, our close confines with other riders, and his fear of losing control, it’s been too many weeks since I’ve felt his skin against mine.
One kiss from him is all it takes for power to hum along my skin, for need to override any and all thoughts besides closer and more. It’s always closer and more when it comes to him.
The door shuts somewhere in the background and I hear the click of a lock, the thud of his pack hitting the floor, the drag of wet leather as he undoes the clasp of his back scabbard, then slides it over his shoulders, never once breaking the kiss. He takes my mouth just like he did the first time, wholly, completely, like he’s given himself permission to be reckless and he’s going to make the most of it.