Forty-Two.

Cecile

I opened my mouth to scream, but only a pathetic whine escaped.

"Be silent. I know the powers you hold."

"Esmeralda?" I choked her name out. "Why are you doing this?"

Her jaw tensed as though she were trying to speak but could not. The pistol wobbled up and down, but steadied when I took a step back. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "But the favor has been called due."

The shot rang loud, tearing apart the stillness of the night. I'd closed my eyes as though not seeing would somehow protect me from the bullet. I held my breath, waiting for the terrible moment when I'd feel hot blood trickling down skin and the pain of metal rending my insides apart. But instead I felt nothing.

Forcing my eyes open, I stared at the flattened bit of metal hanging inches in front of my face, as though it were embedded in an invisible wall. Then beyond it to where Esmeralda lay on her back, the snow splattered with what looked like ink, but what I knew was blood. So very, very much blood.

The bullet dropped from the air to land silently in the snow, and I turned around to see Tristan standing at the crew exit, one arm stretched out in front of him. My gaze went back to Esmeralda, and moving sluggishly, I knelt down next to her, pushed back her hood, and felt for a pulse at her neck. It was a hopeless effort I could have fit my fist through the hole in her chest.

"Esmeralda." There was no inflection in Tristan's voice, no emotion, but his shock made my own hands shake.

"A troll made her do this." I pulled away my hand, convinced I could feel her skin already beginning to cool beneath my fingertips. "She owned Reagan a favor, and it was called due."

"I didn't mean to..." His voice was choked. "You need to help her."

"She is beyond help," I said. I did not add that what he'd done to her would have been enough to fell any living thing in this world.

"No!" He fell to his knees, heedless of the pool of blood. "Use magic. Heal her. Fix her. You know how."

"Tristan, she's dead."

He shook his head, expressing utter denial of my words. "Help her." Grabbing Esmeralda by the shoulders, he pulled her up off the ground, and I almost gagged at the sight of the gore beneath her. "Help her!"

I didn't know what to do. Someone would have heard the gunshot, and it was only a matter of time before we were discovered. Never mind that we knelt next to a corpse, there would be no explaining the manner in which she died. We had to get away. "Tristan, we need to go."

Standing up, I caught hold of his arm, trying to drag him up. But he was intractable. Moving him against his will would be impossible. "I didn't mean..." he said. "I didn't know it was her."

He kept trying to say that he hadn't meant to kill her, but the lie wouldn't pa.s.s his lips.

"Tristan, it was in defense. Whether she wanted to or not, she tried to shoot me." My feet slid in the slurry of blood and snow, but he wouldn't let go of her. He was covered with blood, and in the distance, I could hear the sounds of horses coming this way. "We have to run!

None of what I was saying seemed to register with him. The notion that now would be an opportune time to use his name crossed my mind, but I shoved it aside. Making a fist like Fred had taught me, I pulled my arm back and swung, using the strength of my shoulder. My knuckles collided with his cheek and pain burst through my hand. Tristan jerked away, but more in surprise than in pain.

He stared up at me. "I don't want to leave her like this."

"We have no choice," I said, wishing I didn't need to be so callous. "We need to flee."

We ran through the blizzard and darkness, my skirts pulled up to my knees with one hand and my heeled shoes in the other. My stockings were soaked through in seconds, and not long after the bottoms tore through, exposing the soles of my feet. I was too afraid to feel the discomfort. The city guard would have found Esmeralda by now, and they did not need to be quick-witted to follow tracks in the snow. We needed to get where other people were and then inside so that we could wash away the evidence. Not that it mattered much. Both Aiden and Fred would know who had killed her, and this might well be the opportunity the Regent's son was looking for.

"This way," I hissed, pulling Tristan toward a main boulevard. When we were closer, I slipped my shoes on my numb feet, dropped my skirts, and took his arm. "Smile," I ordered as we stepped out into the traffic of people on the walkways. There I was able to flag down a cab, neither of us saying anything until the horse was trotting in the direction of the hotel.

"I'm sorry I hit you," I said. "But you weren't listening. You were in shock."

He didn't reply. We pa.s.sed through the bubble of light from a lamp, and I saw the white of his cravat was stained with blood. Fingers numb and shaking, I untied it, shoving the fabric into the pocket of my cloak. He was covered in blood, I was sure, but everything else he was wearing was black, so hopefully no one would notice. I squeezed his hand, the leather soaked and sticky. "Tristan, are you all right?"

His jaw tightened, and he pulled his hand out of my grip. "I should take you home first."

"I'm staying with you," I said. "I don't care what people say."

"Do what you want."

I bit my lip. His words sounded like an attack, and in a way, they were. But not at me. He was attacking himself. His guilt and grief made my heart hurt, and I knew he was pushing me away to punish himself. "Don't do this."

The cab pulled to a stop. "We're here." He didn't wait for the hotel footmen to open the door, instead flinging it open himself and stepping down. I started to follow, but he blocked my way, his gaze fixed on my feet. "You should go home. I'll pay him to take you there."

I lifted my chin. "No."

"Do what you want. You always do anyway," he snapped, turning to pay the driver and leaving a footman to help me out. Without looking at me once, he offered me an arm and escorted me up the steps into the lobby. It was lovely and grand, with crystal chandeliers and lush carpets, ma.s.sive framed landscapes and seascapes hanging on walls papered in silk. A man played a piano for a handful of onlookers holding drinks, all of them noticing us while pretending not to as we walked toward the staircase. My presence here with him was scandalous in their eyes, but I was far past caring.

Up and up we walked, my feet burning where my shoes rubbed against sc.r.a.pes and blisters. My skirts were soaked and I was freezing, but I was far more worried for Tristan than I was for me. He'd let guilt over this consume him.

His suite of rooms took up a third of the top floor, and they were warm from the glow of banked fires and lit with lamps of green and gold gla.s.s. Pulling my cloak off, I draped it over the back of a chair to dry. Tristan strode across the room, the fire flaring up with magic as he approached. With vicious jerks, he removed the gloves from his hands and threw them into the flames. His coat and shirt followed suit, then he dropped to his knees to watch it burn, the smell of the smoke acrid and horrible.

"How will I tell elise and Zoe that I killed their aunt? After all the other hurt I've caused them, and now this?"

He was a dark silhouette against the orange glow of the fire. I stayed where I was, afraid to speak and afraid to stay silent. "Tristan, I was there when Esmeralda made her bargain with Reagan. She did it so that she could talk to me." I squeezed my eyes shut, remembering the moment. "She wanted to tell me about the injustices the half-bloods faced because she believed I was in a position to help them. At the time I was too concerned with myself to appreciate the risk she was taking, but I did not fail to notice how much she cared for her nieces. Helping them was what she cared for most what she'd dedicated her life to. And you gave her a chance to do that."

"She helped me more than I ever helped her," he replied. "And I repaid that debt by killing her."

"You may have struck the blow, but it was our enemies yours, mine, and hers who killed her," I said, clenching the damp fabric of my skirt. "Reagan may have held the debt, but we both know she was acting under orders. He could have sent anyone after me there are men and women aplenty who would kill for the promise of gold. Esmeralda was chosen, forced to do this against her will, because she was our ally. She was sent to kill me because even if she failed, the action would still land a very painful blow."

"My father didn't do this," Tristan said softly. "He wouldn't send someone to kill you."

I peeled the black lace gloves off my hands, letting them fall to the floor. With one finger, I traced the silver marks painted across my fingers. "I know." I swallowed hard. "I will never claim to understand your father or to support his methods, but I know with certainty that he wants you to succeed him. This was Angouleme's doing."

"Yes." There was a faint shake to Tristan's voice. "And that he was willing to make such a bold move makes me very afraid of what is happening in my home."

A home he felt powerless to protect. The weight of his guilt made my shoulders sag not only for Esmeralda's death, but also for having left his friends, his family, his entire people to fend against the worst. Picking my way around the furniture, I made my way toward him.

"Cecile, there's something I have to tell you." The words came out in a rush and I froze.

"I didn't have to kill her." His voice was ragged. "I could have stopped her just as easily as I stopped that bullet."

The thought had occurred to me, but I refused to make him feel worse by saying so. "You had only seconds to act before she fired her pistol. You were only trying to save my life."

The only sound was the crackle of the fire, his lack of response making my stomach clench as I realized this confession was not over. "Tristan?"

"I had time enough to think." He turned his head, revealing his profile and the motion of his throat as he swallowed. "I had a barrier in place to keep you safe the moment I saw the pistol. But..." The muscles in his shoulders tensed. "I thought it was her."

Shock stole all speech from my throat. There was only one her.

"I could tell it was a woman," he continued. "I knew what I was doing when I struck. I was trying to kill a.n.u.shka."

I felt as though time had stopped and I had stepped away from my body. Like I was watching a girl who was not me listen to words she had not expected to hear. After everything he had said and done to keep from breaking the trolls free, faced with the chance to end it all, he'd taken it. Without hesitation. I did not know what to feel. I felt everything.

"Do you wish you'd let that horse and carriage take you home now?"

The question was much larger than that. He wasn't asking whether I regretted coming up to his room with him tonight, he was asking me if I regretted our relationship. Whether I regretted loving him.

Closing my eyes, I let our time together pan across my eyes, right from the moment we'd met. Even though I'd been terrified and in pain, I'd thought he was handsome. Except that wasn't even a strong enough word: he was beautiful in a way that was almost painful. Flawless in a way that seemed surreal, like a figment of imagination. So perfect, it was off-putting, because while it was something that could be worshipped, it wasn't something that could be touched or loved. He'd been snide, nasty, and wicked, and I'd loathed him. Except even then I'd sensed something wasn't right, that there was a mismatch between what I was seeing and hearing and what I felt. It was this mismatch that made him captivating, and even as I was grasping for ways to escape, the need to know more about him had lurked in my heart.

That need had only been compounded when we'd been bonded; the veneer of his exterior cracked to reveal a young man so different from the one he pretended to be. A Tristan whom I was uniquely privileged to know. He became a puzzle I needed to solve the key, I'd thought, to my freedom.

Except solving him hadn't relinquished his hold on me. I remembered the moment in the empty palace stables where the truth had come out, when I'd finally seen the emotions filling my head written across his face, and the veneer had fallen away entirely. It was then I stopped seeing the troll and began to see him. He became my friend, my ally and the leader of something I could believe in.

I'd admired him, and yes, l.u.s.ted after him, but then I'd fallen. Fallen for a man who felt too much and took on too much, who believed if only he worked tirelessly and ceaselessly enough, that he could improve the lives of an entire race of people. And I'd had that depth of pa.s.sion turned on me seen it in his eyes, felt it in my heart. He loved me, and I loved him. And I'd love him as long as I lived, and if my soul endured, I'd love him for eternity.

"I forgive you," I whispered, closing the distance between us and falling to my knees at his back, and I saw then that the damage on the outside matched that within. I didn't know why seeing it made my heart hurt as badly as it did, because I'd witnessed the torture inflicted upon him. I suppose part of me was so confident in his strength that I'd believed nothing could mark him permanently. How wrong I'd been.

Silver ribbons of scars from the iron-tipped lash snaked across his back from the base of his neck down to the waistband of his trousers. Puncture marks from sets of manacles had left behind coin-sized scars below both shoulders and above both elbows, and his wrists... There was black fabric wrapped around both to hide the skin between cuff and glove, but he was wearing neither. The injuries had healed, but not without leaving their mark, veins still black and skin a dull grey. A permanent reminder that he was not invincible.

With one fingertip, I traced one of the scars on his back, but he cringed away from my touch. "I don't know how you can stand to look at me."

"How could you say that?" I whispered.

"Because I'm not like I was." He drooped forward, hair falling into his eyes. "Not anything you should have to look upon."

"Is that what you think? That scars change the way I feel about you?" I asked, rising to my feet. My fingers trembled as I reached behind my back, unfastening the b.u.t.tons that reached from below my shoulder blades to my waist. Letting my gown fall to the ground, I kicked it aside. Then, taking a deep breath, I pushed the straps of my shift off my shoulders, the silk sliding down to catch on my hips and leaving me bare to the waist.

The half of me facing the fire burned hot while the other half p.r.i.c.kled with goose b.u.mps, and my bravery wavered. He'd never seen me like this before, and my arms trembled, uncertain of whether to hang at my sides or fold across my chest. I stared straight ahead, too nervous to look down and see how he would react. But not seeing didn't stop me from sensing the moment he turned his head, or hearing the soft intake of his breath. Or from feeling...

"You know I didn't mean you."

My chin jerked up and down once. "I know."

"It's different. You're... I'm..." He stumbled over the words as though his ability to use them had abandoned him.

"It's never going to go away," I said, my knees shaking so hard they knocked together as I visualized the livid red scar running down the side of my ribcage. "For the rest of my life, it's going to be there, so if you cannot bear to look at..."

The heat of his lips pressing against the flaw marring my skin turned my thought into a gasp. I swayed on my feet, but his arms wrapped around my hips, holding me steady. "Don't say it." His voice was m.u.f.fled. "Do not ever even think it."

Letting my fingers tangle in his snow-damp hair, I finally looked down. Tristan sat on his heels at my feet, face pressed against my side, arms gripping me so tightly it almost hurt. He was half-holding me up, and yet I felt as though he were clinging to me like I was a rock in a storm.

"Part of me would erase it, wipe it away if I could," he said. "Because seeing it makes me remember when I thought I was going to lose you. Reminds me of all the hurt that has come to you because of us. Because of me." Letting go with one arm, he traced the scar from top to bottom with one finger, and I shivered, feeling it in places I should not.

He tilted his face up, his eyes no longer dulled to grey by magic and once again the strange silver pools I never ceased to lose myself in. "But part of me is glad that it will always be there for me to see," he continued, "because it is a sign of how much you can endure and survive. And it makes me less afraid."

His hand caught at the silk hanging on my hips, and I waited for him to pull it up. For him to cover up my skin, and for both of us to back away from a moment that we both wanted and yet always retreated away from. Because it was not wise. Because it could cause complications. Because, because, because.

But instead, his hand drifted lower, fingertips scoring a line of fire against my bottom, the back of my thigh, and the curve of my calf. And before I could breathe, the warm silk of my shift pooled around my ankles. He let his hand drop to his side, and I watched his eyes take me in.

I let my knees buckle, not because they were weak, but because it was what I wanted. Tristan caught me, pulling me against him, and when he kissed me, he tasted like spilled wine and melted snow, and I drank it in like one who has walked desert sands for days. I buried one hand in his hair, kissing him back hard enough that my lips felt bruised while my other hand skimmed the hard muscles of his back, my nails digging into his skin and teeth catching at his bottom lip.

Then my back was against the floor, the plush weave of the rug rough between my shoulder blades and Tristan's breath hot against my throat. He caught my hands in his, our fingers interlocking, and the fabric wrapped around his wrists all that was left between us.

"Cecile." He lifted his head up so that we were eye to eye, his fingers squeezing mine tight.

"Yes?" His voice was serious, and concern made my heart beat a little faster.

He let go of one of my hands and pushed back the tendrils of hair crossing my face. "I know we shouldn't do this," he said, eyes flicking away from mine, then back again. "There are risks and consequences, and logic, reason, and... and good sense say that I should stop now." He bit at his lower lip, and I held my breath. "But I don't want to. We've almost lost each other too many times, and I don't want to regret not giving you everything when I had the chance."

The flames burned high next to us, the heat leaving half of me hot and half of me chill, but all of me was on fire. The choice was mine, and for once, it was easy to make. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pulled myself up until my lips brushed against his ear. Then I whispered one word.

"Yes."

Forty-Three.

Cecile

Tristan lay on the sofa with his head on my lap, one leg bent at the knee and the other heel resting on the arm of the sofa with the disregard of someone who has never had to scrub upholstery in his life. His silver eyes gleamed like coins, distant and unblinking, his mind a twist of dread and frustration as it raced through scenario after scenario. As we waited to see what or who would come.

Both of us were fully clothed, and had been since I'd woken in the dark hours of the night, silken sheets twisted around my legs and my skin cold from Tristan's absence. My eyes had found him standing at the window, one hand pressed against the gla.s.s as he gazed out at the night sky. "My father has sent me a letter every night since I left Trollus," he'd said, sensing I was awake.

"What do they say?" My throat parched and voice hoa.r.s.e. My head throbbed, though I hadn't had nearly enough wine to account for it.

"Nothing. Everything." He dropped his hand from the gla.s.s. "They are reminders that he knows all of what I do."

Reminders that he was in control, I thought, wrapping a blanket around my bare shoulders.