Page 111 of A Chill in the Flame
Forty-nine
12:45 AM
6 hours until execution
Tyr steeled himself against life’s greatest new challenge.
“I thought I told you not to come back.” Dwyn draped her nude form over the bed while Ophir remained in the near-nude state provided by her sheer gown, which was nothing new. Dwyn lacked clothes as often as she lacked a conscience. She was objectively beautiful, the same way that a venomous cobra or brightly colored spider is beautiful. Her hair was the black, glossy iridescent of raven feathers and spilled ink. Her chest and hips curved generously, which had been a refreshing testament of confidence in a world that glorified starving itself for social norms. She owned the rooms she entered, she loved her body, her skin, the words that came out of her mouth. Her eyes were large, her lips were berry-dark, and she was all the things that might be okay to see if it was your last moment on earth as she murdered you. In so many ways, she could have been interesting, or admirable, or clever.
She was beautiful, yes. And she was profoundly, andirredeemably, evil.
Dwyn spoke to the invisible space where the door had opened and closed, propped up against the pillows on the far side of the bed while Tyr let the thoughts flit through his mind. He realized with some idleness that she almost always slept to Ophir’s right side. He’d never thought much of it, but he’d also vastly underestimated how conniving she was. Perhaps it had been a subtle way to tell Ophir that she was her right-hand man. Or fae. Or witch. Or whatever it was she wanted to be called that day.
The time to reappear had come and gone. He couldn’t put it off any longer.
Tyr sucked in a single, steadying breath. He put on his most disarming smile before stepping back into the light. “Yes, but I’ve never been good at taking orders. I prefer to be the one giving them.”
The room was already dark, save for two dim lights on either bedside. Hopefully it would help to conceal any traitorous emotions on his face. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure that his feelings toward Dwyn had changed at all. He’d hated her before and hated her now. If anything, it felt good to be right.
He didn’t expect what happened next.
Ophir extended her hand for him from where she sat on the bed. Her fingers wiggled to emphasize her unspoken request, which surprised him.
“What are you doing?” Dwyn asked, eyes flashing as she looked between them. She made no effort to conceal her horror. “Make him sleep on the floor.”
Ophir shook her head, unbothered. “I have an execution in the morning, and I’m nervous. I think I should get to sleep sandwiched between you two lunatics if it makes me feel any better. Next time you put someone to death in a foreign city at dawn, you can call the shots. Deal?”
She made a convincing argument.
He struggled to move toward her while he juggled painful truths. Keeping things from her didn’t feel right. Itwas dishonest. It was cruel. Yet, if he told her, he would be putting Ophir at extreme risk. There was no way to keep Dwyn relaxed and in the dark if Ophir knew what he did. But if he stayed close…if he kept her as close as physically possible…
Tyr approached, begging his heart to slow down. Its arrhythmic thunder wasn’t only from what he’d learned, or what it meant. It wasn’t just his conversation with Harland and Samael, or their plans for the morning. It was also seeing the princess reach out for him. She wanted him there. She wanted him.
He wondered if the women could hear the way his treacherous organ skipped and pounded within the cage of his chest. Perhaps if they did, they’d mistake his nerves for being invited to sleep beside her. He’d snuck in a time or two because he enjoyed irritating Dwyn and causing trouble, and Ophir had found him equally charming, which emboldened him. This was his first time entering her bed truly invited. It wouldn’t serve him to act like anything was different, but in that moment, he lost the capacity for thought. He had no idea what he would normally do in this situation. Would he have a smartass remark? Would he antagonize Dwyn? Would he compliment Ophir? Goddess, she’d broken him simply by wanting him there.
Perhaps the reason he couldn’t think of an ordinary reaction was that there was no bar for normal. A beautiful princess inviting you into her bed with a naked, possessive villain at her side was no commonplace occurrence. Maybe he was right to be nervous.
Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to do the only thing that was asked of him—he couldn’t act like nothing had changed, because it had. He couldn’t keep the smile on his face as he pulled the shirt off over his head. He’d be lying if he said Ophir’s appreciative murmur hadn’t set his world on fire. He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to the women as he took off his boots. He wasn’t afraid of Dwyn—not in theslightest. He’d been ready to die for a long time, if it meant rejoining his dog in the afterlife. But he was afraid for Ophir and wouldn’t rest peacefully until he’d brought justice upon the men who’d harmed the perfect, happy pup who hadn’t deserved her fate. The princess was no helpless animal. She could handle herself, of course. She was fierce and terrifying or a force of gods and nature alike. But he was afraid because there was no merit in the betrayal happening right in front of her. Nothing in her life warranted having her closest ally be her worst enemy.
They both deserved better.
He couldn’t help Svea. But he would die to ensure Ophir’s fate was better.
Ophir’s intuition must have pricked. Her brown-gold eyebrows met in the middle as she looked at him, searching his face for an explanation. It was dark in the room, but not so dark that he couldn’t see the way her eyes always sparkled, as if she wore the gilded crown around her irises rather than atop her head. Fuck, she was beautiful.
But she was so much more than that.
She was rebellious and independent and funny and brave. She didn’t give a damn about convention or tradition or what was expected of her. She did what she wanted when she wanted, and she did it so damn well. She was a highborn noble who’d traipsed across the desert alone to avenge her sister. She was a true, living goddess.
Their eyes held for a moment too long.
The energy exchanged was too sincere.
His intention reached for her, and hers reached back.
He wasn’t sure what made him do it, but he pressed his hand against her cheek, sliding his fingers into her hair, cupping the back of her head. He wanted her to know that she was safe, that he was with her, that she wasn’t alone. He wanted to use his body as a physical barrier between Ophir and the witch. He wanted to build a wall composed of flesh, bone, and safety. Her breath caught in her throat. He knewit the same moment that Dwyn saw it, and Ophir realized precisely what was happening. While he could see Dwyn’s dark eyes widen in horror from his peripheral vision, it was the way Ophir’s began to flutter closed, the way she leaned into his hand, the way her lips parted ever so slightly that sealed his fate.
He was going to kiss her.
