Page 5 of The Second Death of Locke
“Or an elixir,” he said.
“Kiernan Seward, if we are risking our lives for a rock or an elixir, I am leaving you and this entire blasted camp and deserting.”
He laughed, his hands moving down to clasp her waist, thumbs pressing on either side of her spine. She bit her lip to stop any inappropriate noises from escaping. “You wouldn’t leave me,” he said.
She closed her eyes, hiding her face behind her arm. No, she would not leave him. But perhaps, someday, it would be far easier for her heart if she did.
“It’s probably a mistake,” Kier said. For a half-second, she thoughthe was talking about what they were doing, and her heart dropped—though it was not uncommon for him to be so affectionate, or so kind to her body. “A fluke.”
“Perhaps,” Grey said.
He went back to his ministrations, the quiet swelling between them. Grey shifted, aiming for subtlety, because though this seemingly didn’t impact him, it did affect her in ways she would be mortified for him to discover.
Unless it was requited. In which case, this was quite a good moment for him to make that discovery, or a move, or cross a line that she herself wouldn’t without certainty—but the position they were in and the fact that hedidn’tcross that line was answer enough for her.
“You had a nightmare last night,” Kier said, unprompted.
She rolled under him, narrow-eyed, moving her arm to cover her breasts as she did. Kier shifted up to give her space to move. If he was affected by the sight of her, shirtless beneath him, he did not let it show.
He leaned to adjust her hair so it wasn’t caught under her, then picked up the arm she wasn’t using to cover herself, massaging her right forearm. Annoyingly, after years and years of this, he always knew exactly where she was the sorest.
“I’m sorry I disturbed you,” she said.
“It’s fine,” Kier said, brushing it off like he brushed off any inconvenience she offered. “What was it about?”
Grey tipped her head back, staring at the canvas again. “I don’t remember.”
He poked her hard in the stomach.
“What? I don’t.”
“Flynn,” he sighed, brushing the hair out of her face.
She pushed his hand away and pulled her vest up. Now he did look down, for only a second, before he glanced away, swallowing.
“You remember everything,” he said softly.
I don’t want to remember this, she wanted to say, but it wasn’t worth it. She stayed quiet until he moved, stretching out on his back next to her. He hated doing it, she knew, because he always expected the damp to seep up through the rug (it never did) and he insisted thatthe pallets were more comfortable than the ground (they were not; she would sleep right here, on the floor, if he did not kick up such a fuss about it). His arm pressed into hers; she laced their fingers together and felt the lazy attachment of the tether between them, her power flowing easily into him and falling dormant. The room glowed warmer, the fire going a tinge brighter purple, as she pushed the power at him.
Kier, she wanted to say,why are we doing this? Why are we fighting?
But he would only say that they were fighting for Scaela because it was their home, and because everyone was fighting. Scaela against Luthar for the ports and Cleoc Strata for the fertile land and Eprain for access to the eastern sea. It was Scaela against the others, and the other nation states against one another, all the way down—the only place to get any peace on this doomed island was possibly in Nestria, because they fought only Cleoc Strata and were mostly free.
Scaela against them all because decades before, someone had killed Locke in a failed attempt to seize control of Idistra’s power, and their own High Lord Scaelas would never forget it.
Because there would soon be no power left at all, not unless the Isle’s heir returned to resurrect it, and someone had killed the rest of the family and no one knew who or how or if it was possible to bring the power back.
Grey felt all of it pressing on her chest, the hopelessness and her nightmare adding equal weight.
“Captain,” she said, voice catching in her throat.
“Hand,” he said, easing into their roles, waiting for her confession. He imparted so much tenderness into that one word that she had to swallow hard twice before she could even consider speaking.
She closed her eyes, focusing only on his hand in hers, the ebb and flow of power between them.
“Fire,” she said. “I dreamed of fire.”
“Past or present?”
