Page 120 of Secrets of Graves and Gold

I run my fingers back into my hair, which is tangled from this morning’s riding. “I don’t really know that either. I haven’t let myself pay that much attention—I’ve had plenty of other things to worry about. There’ve been moments when I felt attracted to him. I appreciate how much he’s helped us. There’s something special about the way he looks at the world. But—gods help me, he’s not even human.”

“In some ways he is, now,” the scholar says. “He’s become more than a daimon. And Casimir is right—he’s also become part of… whatever we are, working together like this. I trust him. I respect his judgment, even if sometimes it’s odd.”

I stare at him. “Where are you going with this?”

Alek offers me a sheepish smile. “You’ve been able to handle three of us. If you decide you could have something real with Rheave too, I’d understand it. I wouldn’t be angry. It seems wrong to shut him out of that one aspect of what we have together, if that’s what you both end up wanting.”

I have no doubt about whether Rheave would want it. At least, the physical side. What do daimon know about actual relationships, romance, any of that?

But his expression when he talked about how much he wanted to matter to me, how much I mattered to him… It was the emotion in his face and in those words that drew me in.

He’s always been beautiful, but I had no idea anything that intense was going on in his head.

Argh. This is so ridiculous. I have so many more important problems to sort out.

I press the heel of my hand to my temple. “If no one’s pissed off at me, I think it’d be easier if we just pretended this never happened and never let it happen again.”

“But it did happen.”

All of our gazes dart to Stavros. The former general looks only at me, unwaveringly.

I can’t read his expression, but my heart starts to sink.

He’s been the most hesitant about Rheave’s presence in our lives. He had the most trouble accepting his own feelings for me. I don’t think any of us has a clue how he’ll react to this situation.

Without another word, he crosses the short distance between us and cups my face between his hands, flesh and metal. The next thing I know, his mouth has captured mine.

He kisses me deeply, lingering in the moment until I can barely remember there’s anyone else in the world, let alone anyone else I’d want to kiss as well. When he eases back, his hands drop to my shoulders.

One corner of his mouth crooks upward. “Obviously you figured I didn’t have enough competition for your affections. You’re so set on making me work for it, hmm, Lady Thief?”

A blush flares in my cheeks. “I didn’t purposefully?—”

He chuckles and brushes another kiss to my forehead. “I know. And I told you I wanted you to be selfish more often, didn’t I? Maybe I haven’t reminded you of that fact often enough. I’m not going to start caging you now if there’s more happiness you could find.”

My heart is suddenly thumping twice as hard. “You’re really saying…”

When I can’t find the rest of my words, he answers the implicit question. “You’re not sure. That’s fine. We’ll see how it goes. But you’re more than worthy of four paramours. As Casimir would probably say, you should have all the joy you can get in your life while it’s there for the taking.”

Something about his tone and that last sentence sets off an ache in my belly. None of us know how much more life we’re going to get, and mine has always been especially precarious.

Is that the only reason he’s giving his approval? Because he thinks I need to stuff as many experiences as I can into the little time I might have left?

I have the sense of Julita beaming in my head. I knew I’d chosen well. Other than the matter of Benny. Three out of four excellent men is still quite a success.

I swallow the sputter of a laugh that tickles up my throat.

Before I can figure out what to say next, a shout and a crash in the underbrush bring me leaping to my feet.

“Rheave?” Casimir calls as we all rush in the direction of the sound.

The continuing noises of a struggle make it easy to find the daimon-man, just beyond a shaking bush some fifty paces away. When we reach him, Rheave is pinning the hands of the man he’s tackled to the ground.

“He’s like me,” he says, his voice a little ragged from the exertion. “Daimon in a conjured body. He must be from the march.”

My pulse hiccups. We draw in around the fallen man, who stares up at us defiantly.

“What are you doing here?” Stavros demands.

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