Page 82 of Fire and Silk
I bring my free hand up to brush a stray lock of hair from her cheek. My thumb lingers just beneath her eye. “It’s nothing. Just look at me.”
She does.
And she’s trembling.
Good.
The blade I draw from my belt is ceremonial, thin as a whisper, etched with my father’s insignia along the hilt. Its edge has tasted many vows.
I tighten my hold on her hand.
“One stroke,” I say. “You won’t even feel it.”
That’s a lie. But it sounds good.
She bites her bottom lip.
Then I drag the blade cleanly across her palm.
She gasps—soft and startled—but I hush her, pressing my forehead to hers for a moment. “It’s fine. It’s done.”
A bright line of red wells in her palm.
I draw my own hand up and slice through the skin without hesitation. The sting is nothing.
Then I press our palms together, blood mixing, warm and slick and ancient.
The elder steps forward again, wrapping both our hands in a length of black silk.
He murmurs the final line.
Matteo goes forward, slipping the iron ring onto my finger, then placing the finer band onto Lira’s. Her hand is cold. Her pupils blown wide.
I kiss her knuckles.
“It’s done,” I whisper.
And I smile.
Because now she belongs to me.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, ankles together, hands in her lap like she’s bracing for impact. The silk of her nightdress pools around her thighs like spilled moonlight. One candle flickers on the bedside table, catching the hollow of her throat, the slash of white gauze still wrapped around her palm.
Mine matches.
My blood. Hers. Still crusted and dark where it seeped through the bandage.
She looks up at me, and it’s not nerves in her eyes. It’s something older than that. Hunger. The kind you don’t speak aloud, not even in the dark.
Her knees are pressed together. Feet tucked under the hem. Spine straight. Her eyes, though… they flick to the corner of the room like she’s rehearsing her exit.
I cross to her slowly and crouch before her. Not kneeling. Crouching. Close enough to catch the warmth off her knees. Close enough to unsettle.
She doesn’t move.
“Why did you come back?” I ask, voice soft.
Then she looks at me—not with affection, not with fear, but with the hollow focus of someone choosing to survive.
