Page 117 of The Second Death of Locke
His lips pressed to her temple. “Then I’ll wait for you until you decide,” he said. “But we’ve been following everyone else’s orders for so long—I want you to have a genuine choice, Grey. A future you have picked for yourself.”
She thought of him sacrificing himself for her, the look on his face when he had told her to say goodbye to his mothers.
The truth was: if she posed the choice to him, Kier would choose his own sacrifice. He would give up his freedom for her and leave her power. He would remain here on this Isle, growing older and more bitter, forced to accompany her all the way to her grave.
She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling as his breathing grew even and his grip on her loosened. She could just… not tell him. But it would be its own kind of betrayal, to keep the truth from him.
And yet.
He had run away for her, become a soldier for her, risen in rank for her, gone into battle for her, lied for her, nearly been killed for her, been kidnapped for her. He haddiedfor her.
If he had the choice, he would always make the decision that saved her, that supported her. Maybe, for once, she wanted to make a decision to sacrifice for someone else, after he had given everything up for her. She could not bear to take more than that.
Scaelas, let me speak frankly: I know you are hurting, but we must move past this. If you cannot look past what was done to Isaak and the Isle, Idistra will never be at peace. We must move on, find a genuine solution, or we will all be at war.
Letter from Cleoc to Scaelas, 4 daysPD
Then let us be at war.
Letter from Scaelas to Cleoc, 5 daysPD
twenty-nine
GREY DID NOT KNOWhow much time did or did not pass as they readied the Isle. She measured the days in her own way as they worked until they were tired, then slept in her great bed, too exhausted for anythingbutsleep (or perhaps Kier was no longer interested in that kind of relationship; but he still kissed her at every chance, so she wondered at it). On the first day, they went through the armories, making note of weapons and supplies, preparing for an army that had not yet arrived. On the second, she prepared rooms for diplomatic guests while Kier walked the Isle, learning the lay of the land, making his own maps; that evening, they set up the war room in one of the chambers that looked out toward the rest of Idistra.
She woke on the third day to a thin light streaming in from the window. Kier’s side of the bed was empty but still warm—she sat up to see his shadow on the side of the room. She rubbed her eyes, calmed by the sound of the gulls and the crashing of the waves, the shout of the wind; all the familiar sounds of Locke.
All the familiar sounds.
She froze. “Kier?”
“I know.”
When she looked up at him, she realized that he was not dressingin the clothes they’d worn to work over the last few days; he was laying out his armor, dark gray as the banner of Locke, the rocks, the stormy sky. He was dressing for war.
“You can keep sleeping, love,” he murmured. “I already went to the tower. We have time.”
She ignored him, slipping from the bed and going to the window. She squinted out at the bay, at the continent: she could only just see the coast. There were ships in the distance.
“I suspect we have an hour,” she said. She went back to the bed and sat heavily on the edge. It was no new sight, to watch Kier prepare for battle, his hair still wet from bathing in the early hours of the morning; but now it was her armor he wore, her crest of a blade over two linked rings embroidered on the surcoat draped over the chair, her battle he was preparing for. “Maybe more. They’ll worry about the shields. We should fly a banner for Scaelas and Cleoc, to let them know it’s safe.”
“We should,” he said, but his voice had changed. Grey looked up— and felt the pulse of desire through the tether.
Something had caught Kier off guard when he glanced over at her. He crossed the room and dropped to his knees beside the bed, between her legs. His hands slipped around her calves. His eyes never left hers as he pressed a kiss just above her knee.
“It’s just… yourthighs,” he confessed, almost mournful. As if to prove his point, he moved his hands upward, thumbs digging in, fingertips tracing the backs of her knees. “I could write odes to your thighs. I might actually have dreams of your thighs.”
She raised a brow. “Is that so?”
“They’re perfect,” he lamented. She shuddered, watching the dimpling of his fingers into her flesh, falling back onto her elbows.
“You’ve never mentioned it.”
“A grievous error on my part.” He bent to kiss the freckle above her left knee.
“Kier,” she said, running her hands through his hair even as she knew it was a bad idea—but she hadn’t been with him since Grislar, and even through the exhaustion, shewanted. “We could be at war in a few hours.”
“Mm,” he hummed against her skin. Gently enough so it only just hurt, he bit the soft flesh of her inner thigh—the feeling went straight to her center. His hands came up, framing her hips. “I’m aware.”
