Page 128 of Silvercloak
“No. Aviruna’s been bringing me food. And, as you so tactfully put it, a piss bucket. But she can’t keep doing that forever.”
A fair observation. His father seemingly had no end state in mind. He hadn’t wanted to kill his son, but he’d sentenced him to certain demise regardless. So why keep Levan fed and watered? Was he stewing in his office, frantically trying to find a way to undo his hideous curse? Or was his son out of sight, out of mind?
“You don’t look well,” Saff said gently, gesturing to the sweat on his forehead. “The wound you mentioned … is it still infected?”
“Charming, thank you. But no, the salve’s working.”
“What’s the wound fro—”
“Drop it,” he said shortly. “Has my father approached you since …?”
“No.”
He relaxed the tiniest amount, and it only made him look more exhausted. “Alright. Good.”
There was a knot of emotion in Saffron’s chest she couldn’t pick loose: threads of guilt and shame, yes, but also fear and desire, all interwoven with the memory of how his lips felt on hers. The taste of clove tea, the furrow of his brow as he pored over her necklace. The hardplanes of his body, the rich unspooling deep below her navel. Two golden robes, sewn by hand, left hanging in his armoire.
Somehow, she would fix this. She would steal Lyrian’s weaverwick wand, find a way to harness her new powers, and save Levan. Despite everything he was—everything he would always be. Because he wasn’tjusta torturer and a killer. Hells, she was those things too. He was also a dragon nerd, a whimsical Enchanter, a knower of ancient languages, a bereaved son and potentially a widower, a consumer of anguish tea, and a gifted writer, if his journal was anything to go by.
I cannot let desperation cloud my mind. Not when Silver has already misted the glass.
“Where’s your necklace?” he asked, gesturing to her bare clavicle, and her hand went automatically to the space where the wooden pendant should be.
“Lost.” She swallowed away the lump of emotion. “I think the chain snapped when I was in the city.”
“I’m sorry. I know what it meant to you.” Something bright and protective flashed over his face, if only for a moment. It reminded her of the look on Nissa’s face when she’d found out Saffron would be tortured and branded, and it touched her that he knew just how acute this loss was. “If I somehow make it out of this situation alive, I’ll enchant another. It won’t be the same, I know. Won’t be your childhood door, or the bodies of your parents. But it’ll be something. A place for your hand to go when you’re feeling too much.”
“You’ve seen me do that?” Her cheeks burned at the thought of him watching her when she wasn’t looking.
He nodded wearily. “When you stopped to help that lox-stricken mage on Lancen Place, your hand clutched the necklace like a touchstone. Like you were trying to summon your mother’s strength.” His gaze met hers again, and something shimmered behind his blue eyes. “I see you, Silver. For all that you are.”
Everything in Saffron’s body froze for a moment, parsing his words for a more dangerous meaning.
Was he trying to insinuate that he knew she was still a Silvercloak?
A Timeweaver?
Or was she just paranoid?
“And what am I?” she asked carefully, leaning back against the wall in an attempt to look nonchalant.
“Stubborn. Smart. Sarcastic.” A curious smile. “Complicated. Brave, in a way most would consider reckless. Afraid, though you’d never admit it.Good,though you’ve started to doubt it.”
Saints.She’d always considered herself hard to read.
Yet Levan remained a book mostly closed to her. Nissa was the same, keeping her emotions under lock and key, and the key buried beneath several tons of densely packed earth. Was that Saffron’sthing? Did she just enjoy the challenge of breaking them open, cracking the spines, dog-earing their pages?
“You know what’s unsettling?” she asked, determined to turn the focus back onto him.
“What’s that?”
“That you must be in horrible pain, yet there’s nothing on your face to suggest as much.”
A muscle feathered in his jaw. “Never show what hurts. It’ll only be used against you.”
“Still, your ability to keep your face still as marble is a little frightening.”
His lips quirked. “Would you like me to cry?”
