Page 122 of Kingdom of the Two Moons

“Fate wouldn’t have allowed that.”

“Do not hold fate against me. Do not be so naïve, Riven, not you, of all people. Fate is a vicious thing, but it too can be bent, shaped, twisted, and broken. It’s no different from a living creature. I know that better than most.”

Riven goes very still at the words, at their cryptic meaning. And at Caryan’s tone. If he didn’t know any better, he would say it affects Caryan—that she ran away.

“She’s angry, Caryan. She is also afraid. She’s been a prisoner all her life. Give her a little more rope and see what happens.”

“She’ll only run away again,” Caryan growls, not meeting Riven’s eyes.

“I don’t believe that. Let me try. Let me protect her, watch her, as you ordered.”

Riven forces himself to breathe while Caryan seems to debate his words. Too long, it takes too long. Every second, Riven can feel Caryan become more inclined to lock her up for good, cage her like an animal. It would break her. She would start to hate them in time.

But he suspects Caryan knows this. That a part of him, a part Riven hasn’t yet managed to figure out, even toys with the idea for that reason. Be it the lure of Kalleandara’s prophecy or something beyond Riven’s grasp.

When he can’t stand the silence any longer, he adds, his voice bereft of emotion, “Besides, as we agreed, whoever is after her is going to come for her again. They will be more inclined to make another move if she moves about, allegedly unwatched.”

Caryan raises his chin, watching Riven’s every breath. Riven endures it, silently praying to the ancient gods that Caryan will see reason. He hates how his hands are tied, how he can only watch the storm unfold.

Caryan turns away from him again eventually. But he gives a brusque wave with his hand. “Then by all means, Riven, we shall try it your way.”

38

Melody

A prickle all over my skin makes me look over my shoulder. Caryan’s eyes rest on my naked shoulder blades. And for a second, I think I find hunger in them.

He leans in the doorframe, arms crossed in front of his chest.

I don’t know for how long he’s been standing here. Watching me. I shiver at the way he takes me in now. Me, in his bathtub, naked, a book in my hand.

He says, “You decided to stay.”

“‘Never run from anything immortal. It only attracts their attention,’” I quote, gently putting the book aside on a table. “That’s what the unicorn in the book says. Or maybe I’m just tired of running.”

He comes closer and I pray the bubble bath I found among an array of scented, gold-dusted soaps, and poured generously into the steaming water, covers most of me.

He frowns at the soaps as if he’s never seen them before, then takes the book and holds it up. I found it in his library, in the section of my world. It’s a used copy, well thumbed-through.

“The Last Unicorn,” he says, reading the title. I watch his eyes, slate gray again, embedded in black. Then I scan his aura, still tinted by shed violence.

When his eyes drift to mine, I glance down, putting my armsaround my legs. “It was my favorite book. Someone read it to me when I was a child. Someone very close to me, I think,” I say, frowning at myself, because a part of me knows there had never been anyone taking care of me, while another part knowssomeonewas there. “Maybe I just imagined him,” I whisper, suddenly unsure of my own mind.

“‘We are not always what we seem, and hardly ever what we dream,’” he quotes.

I look up. “You know that book?”

“Quite well,” he admits, still looking down at that title. Something flickers in his aura, but it turns into this indifferent gray before I can make out what it was.

He sinks onto a stool that has appeared out of nowhere, bracing his arms on his legs as he leans forward. I try not to look at the way the fabric of his black shirt clings to his body, vying with the whiteness of his skin. How his bluish veins shimmer beneath it like rivers under moonlit water. How the only color on him is in his lips, tinted like bruised plums in the little light.

Again, I wonder how I look in his eyes. Pale as him, my hair a touch lighter than his ink-black hair. Ordinary. Human.

I bite my lip and glance back down as heat flushes my cheeks. I cringe a little at my act of boldness, staying here. At the unwrittenness of the next chapter. Deep down, I feel too tender for it, like I’m falling apart. But I’ve always felt that way.

Rarely safe. Close to the edge. Close to losing myself. Anxious and agitated.

Tense.

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