Page 65 of White Horse Black Nights

He gasps for air with his damaged windpipe.

“I’ve killed many men,” I murmur in his ear while both sets of our eyes are fixed on Sabine across the kitchen. “But none I’ll relish as much as slitting your throat. That girl, there? The one you thought you could take from me? Whatever bounty you thought she was worth, I assure you, she’s worth it one hundred times over. I would tear the living world down to the gods’ underrealm for her—and I’ll happily butcher you.”

I place the blade against his throat and slide it through, slow and clean. His dying gurgles are a rapture. The blood pouring down his chest drenches me in ecstasy. His—

“Basten?”

I whirl toward her small voice in the corner, forgetting my bloodlust. Her. That’s all that matters. That’s all this bloodshed was for—just her.

“Sabine.”

We come together. She slips on a blood slick, but I catch her as she stumbles. My hands circle her waist like a lock clicking into place. I hug her close to my chest, almost afraid to believe it’s over, and that she’s safe. My chin rests on the crown of her head. Her body folds so perfectly into mine. She and I fit together like we were made for one another. And fuck, if my groin doesn’t harden in acknowledgment of that fact. I’m practically choking on the flood of adrenaline that swells from the fight. I want her. I want to bathe the blood off her. I want to tear her out of this foreign dress. I want to take her right here with four corpses still bleeding out on the floor.

But I tuck away that need; her care comes first. I smooth my hands over her blood-spattered face. Her cut hair is unexpected, but the length suits her. It frames her perfect face better than any gilded border ever could.

Tenderly, I comb my bloodstained fingers through her hair, tucking a short lock behind her ear.

“You’re not stung?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “The bees were careful. They didn’t sting me. Or you. Or Myst.”

My little violet protected me just as I was safeguarding her.

She delicately touches a scratch on the side of my neck. “You’re bleeding.” She uses a corner of her sleeve to wipe away the blood, and then on impulse, presses her lips to the wound like I’m a child in need of comfort.

I groan as I tip my head back. I’m barely able to breathe. Too affected by the perfection of this beautiful girl who keeps me guessing with her every move. It’s a rush: To know that she’s safe. To know that my brutality hasn’t scared her away. To know that she’s a force to be reckoned with in her own right. I want to hear her heartbeat every night when I fall asleep. I want to feel the vibration of her blood as she lies next to me. I want to drown in the scent of blood and violets until there’s nothing in the world but her.

“Don’t,” I rasp out, and then lick my lips, and correct myself. “Don’t stop.”

She continues to move her soft lips over my neck in little kisses that makes my skin tingle and my body go still, afraid the slightest movement will make her stop. When she eventually breaks contact, she nestles her forehead on my shoulder. I’d bleed for her. I’d break bones for her. I’d cut my own heart out of my chest if she only asked it of me, and I’d willingly die at her feet with the still-pumping organ in my hands, an offering for this girl whose worth rivals the gods.

Chapter21

Sabine

Basten’s shirt smells of smoke from the inn, but it reminds me of our campfire nights in the woods. Those long, star-filled nights when the two of us burned so bright in our hurt, rage, and loneliness that we weren’t able to see that the one thing we needed was just across the flames.

My hands twist in his shirt’s fabric, the same shirt I wore for all those black nights. The shirt that hugged me, that sheltered me. Why didn’t I see how Basten has always been watching out for me, even since that first night when he lent me his shirt?

And now he’s killed four men for me. It leaves my mind reeling and my breath hot. I never knew how intoxicating it could be to see someone go to battle for me. He butchered these men. Dropped bodies to my feet. All this blood. This carnage. The air is charged like the aftermath of a lightning strike—so much energy with nowhere to go.

Clutching his collar, I tip my face up. We’re whisper-close. A drop of blood rolls from his hairline. This time, I don’t wipe it away. I watch it blaze a course down his perfect temple.

What would my life have been like if I’d had Basten in the convent? My whole life, all I’ve known from the people who were supposed to care for me is perverse abuse at their own hands. For so long, I’ve longed for safety. Someone to fight for me, or better yet, to show me I have the strength to defend myself.

Basten has done both.

And what about him? An orphaned boy, forced to fight anyone who might be a friend. He trembles under my gentle touch like he’s never experienced a single tender thing before.

I didn’t see before now how alike the two of us are. We both grew up painfully alone, relying only on our wits and godkisses. So it’s no wonder that we tried to throw up walls when we found a like soul, instead of recognizing each other.

And now I’m about to lose him. When we reach Duren, he won’t be there for me when I need him. I’ll never again feel how entirely his arms surround me, like a coat tailored perfectly to my frame. I’ll never know if his broken parts ever mend.

As I clutch his collar harder, I feel like I’m falling from a hundred feet, falling, falling, falling, and the only thing to hold onto is him.

“You came,” I whisper.

“Little violet, of course I came. I’d cross the gods’ ten realms on hands and knees for you.”

---