Page 113 of Slaying the Vampire Conqueror

Because there was no part of me, not even the part steeped in guilt, not even the little girl who thought she owed her entire life to Acaeja and to the Arachessen, that even considered killing Atrius in this moment.

I could not do it.

I would not do it.

I sheathed the dagger.

Atrius’s eyes opened. He never woke up slowly or groggily. He was always simplyawake, immediately. Today was no exception, and when those eyes snapped open, they fell to me as instantly as if it was nothing less than instinct.

My heart twisted, a sensation that was one part pleasant, one part painful.

He didn’t say anything, but reached out his hand—a silent beckoning.

Another twinge in my chest.

I crawled back to the bedroll and sat cross-legged beside it. His hand fell to my thigh, fingers brushing the wound he’d left. He lingered there for a moment, like he too was reliving the night before.

“You look better.”

Atrius’s way of asking,How are you feeling?

“I feel better.”

His hand didn’t move. I was so conscious of that touch that it was almost distracting—and yet, strangely comforting. I hadn’t been prepared for how intense skin-to-skin contact with Atrius was. Not the first time I touched him, not last night, and not now.

A flare of desire in his presence as his eyes ran over me told me he was thinking the same thing. And Weaver, it was tempting—the idea of crawling back into bed with him and disappearing into carnal bliss.

But Atrius was not one to find it easy to distract himself, sex or no. And sadly, as much as I sometimes wished otherwise, neither was I.

“Sun is falling,” I said.

We both knew what that meant. Night began, and the work began.

Solemnness rolled over Atrius’s face. “Yes. I need to find out how many we lost in the day.”

A pang of his hurt mingled with my own. It didn’t matter that they were vampires. The scenes I witnessed these last few days were far too familiar—too reminiscent of every death I’d seen at the hands of the Pythora King. It didn’t matter what their teeth or blood looked like. That suffering was the same.

In the wake of the worst events we’d seen, theSightmother would always remind us that death is nothing to be mourned, simply the will of the Weaver. The others seemed to find comfort in this. But I never could.

For most of my life that had been something shameful.

Not today. Today, I was glad to feel it—the anger at all those countless deaths.

“The Pythora King will pay for it,” I said quietly. “Soon enough. You’ll avenge all those lives.”

Atrius’s gaze and his attention slipped far away, a shiver of mournfulness tinging the air between us.

I felt his unspoken question.

My brow furrowed. “What?”

He let out a light scoff, a wry smile twisting one side of his mouth. “You see too much, seer.”

“I see just enough, conqueror.”

The smile lingered, then faded. Finally, he said, “I don’t know if this is the right thing.”

The words came slow, like such a blatant admission of uncertainty stuck in his throat.

---