Page 89 of Down Comes the Night

“When have I ever pretended to bewise?”

Slowly, the wounded shock on his face melted into an emotion she couldn’t quite place. “Then heal my eyes if you can. I need to ensure you’re…”

Her heart fluttered in anticipation. “I’m what?”

“You’re… sufficiently covered,” he offered. “So our mission remains uncompromised.”

“Oh. Of course.” She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, wincing at the disappointment in her voice. “Your magic is a last resort. Only if I fail, and only if we’re attacked.”

“Only as a last resort,” he agreed.

She cleared her throat when she couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Well, then. We should do it now.”

Hal nodded. She was still leaning against the door, painfullyaware of the scant inches between them. “Where would you like me?”

Right now? Far, far away.She waved a hand in the direction of an armchair. “Sit. Get comfortable.”

He picked his way across the room, frustratingly slow, and chose an armchair by the window. As she came closer, every creak of the floorboards reminded her of this painfully significant silence. Or maybe the thickening of the air was only in her imagination.

Moonlight traced his features, and with his eyes half-closed, he was unreadable. Wren settled on the windowsill beside him. They’d been exactly here only last week. Him, struggling to button his shirt. Her, struggling to figure him out. Shoving aside the memory, Wren reached forward and rested her too-cold fingers against his temples. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

Herfolaglowed softly, and as she eased her magic into him, the numb, tingling sensation spread from her forearms into her wrists and fingers. It wasn’t wise to push through the discomfort, but they were running out of time. Although she’d nearly let her nerves get the best of her during the transplant surgery, this time, shehadto maintain her focus. For Hal’s sake, she had to be perfect.

How different this was from their first session, when he’d nearly gutted her for coming this close. Even a few days ago, the magical link between them had made them both crawl with discomfort. Now, it felt like coming home, a settling in, a yielding. As if her energy belonged in him. All her life, healing had been an obligation, a means of proving herself. And with Hal, it had been a punishment. Now, this was about protecting them.

Something else, too. Something almost tender.

She worked in concentrated silence. Although the glass was cold at her back, sweat beaded on her forehead. The eye was among the most delicate and complex structures to heal. His leaking, frayedfolatwined around ophthalmic blood vessels that could kill him if cut; embedded themselves into the muscles anastomosing the sclera and optic nerve; spanned across the conjunctiva like hairlinefractures in bone. One wrong move and Hal would lose his eyes. It took all of her energy to knit together the pathways, to soothe the inflamed tissues.

After what felt like hours, the tension that always pinched his brows together and locked his jaw began to ebb away. She repaired the damage until her fingers trembled too hard to safely continue. The energy from her hands surged, then sputtered like a flame on a wick. There was still so much work to do to restore his eyes completely, and the pain of wanting to do more almost outweighed the pain of her own degeneratedfola.

Her fingertips still rested on his temples, right against the gentle thrum of his temporal pulse. Hal opened his eyes and reached up and wrapped his hand, warm and rough, around her wrist. Could he feel her heartbeat, too—how it leapt at his touch?

His thumb slid upward, caressing her palm. “I can tell you’re exhausted.”

The silver glow of her magic flickered once more and died. Darkness washed over them.

“I’m sorry.” Her face burned hot with shame. “I think this is all I can do for now. You’ll have one use, maybe two.”

“Then once will have to be enough.” Hal didn’t release her hand. He was studying every detail of her face from beneath his eyelashes as if she were a work of art. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at her like that.

Like she was beautiful.

Nerves twisted her stomach into knots, but her longing emboldened her. Would he let her do this? Slowly, uncertainly, she guided his hand upward and laid his palm flat against her cheek. When he didn’t move, when he let her turn to press her lips to the heel of his palm, she gathered up her skirts and slid her knee onto the chair beside his hip.

“Wren.” His voice was exquisite agony, even as he rested his hand on her thigh. “We can’t.”

It would be more self-destructive, more selfish than anything she’d done before. Logic and centuries of bloody Danu-Vesrian wars forbade this. Tomorrow night, the fate of their nations dependedon their success. If they succeeded, they’d have peace. And if they failed… Either way, there was no world imaginable that could hold space for them. Wanting him would lead to nothing but ruin in the end. They both knew it. But his expression was darkening, and Wren was powerless against those eyes of his. Even with so little magic, they were weapons.

She and Hal could never be together, and if they might fail tomorrow, why not have this moment? Maybe for tonight, they could forget they were soldiers on opposite sides of a battlefield. For a night, they could set aside everything and just be Hal and Wren. Nothing more or less.

Words snarled up on her tongue, and although she felt small and childish, she managed to whisper, “I know. But I want to. Just this once.”

Hal bowed his head until his nose could rest in the crook of her neck. His sigh was a surrender. “Just once.”

Her body reacted immediately to the sensation of his lips against her skin. A rush of fear that came with letting go—and heat that throbbed within her. Just this once, she wanted to run toward the things that frightened her. She settled into his lap. Neither of them so much as breathed. There was no space between them now, heart to frantically beating heart. There was nothing else to say. So she cradled his jaw in both hands and brushed her lips against his.