Page 90 of Down Comes the Night

The sound he made was one of a man either absolved or damned. His mouth was surprisingly soft against hers—not at all what she expected—but his stubble scraped her chin with every kiss. The newness of the sensation made her shiver. He tasted deep red, like wine. Like the first wild strawberries in spring.

His hands burned a trail from her hips to her waist, up the curves of her rib cage. He touched her like he wanted to savor it, meltingly, maddeningly slowly. Every kiss, every touch snared her thoughts into a tangle of pure need. She was equal parts lost and certain as she fumbled with his cravat until it came loose, as she knotted her fingers into his hair.

Ithurt,how good this felt. His mouth against hers. The solidpress of his body against her. Surrendering to the storm of her emotions instead of fighting. Staying, instead of running, always running.

She’d known it for a while now. Hal Cavendish, who held her against him like he’d die if she slipped away, was no monster. She wanted to cling to this version of him—hers—and never let him go.

But now he was drawing back, dragging a humiliating low whine from her throat. He leaned his forehead against hers, and when she opened her eyes, she saw his pupils blown wide, ringed like the full moon in cobalt blue. Everything went still as a winter night. She tried to find the meaning in that look, in what he wouldn’t say to her aloud. Her head was still spinning, her body wound tight. So she settled into the stillness. Nose to nose in the dark, inhaling every ragged breath he let out.

She could have cried at the sight of him, so perfect, so ruined. She’d ruffled his hair and reddened his lips. Without realizing it, she must have unbuttoned his shirt, and now, she let her fingers trace the line of his bare collarbones. Hal twisted a lock of her hair around his finger and watched the strands separate with such raptness, it was as though they were spun from gold. It was an unfamiliar bliss to casually touch and be touched.

One that she couldn’t cherish for long.

Wren worried one of his loose buttons between the pads of her fingers, then laid her palm flat against his bare chest to feel the warmth. “I’m so afraid of what’ll happen.”

He didn’t respond at first. The sounds of distant conversations and the wind as it rocked the house filled the silence. Finally, his voice vibrated against her palm. “I am, too.”

“Are you? I’m still getting used to the idea of you being scared of anything.”

“Once, I feared nothing.” Hal traced absentminded patterns on the small of her back. “In Vesria, they say death is a blessing—that we return to nothing, our suffering ended. That it’s an honor to die for your country. Once, I believed that.”

“But now?”

“Now, I believe death is not so light a thing. I haven’t stopped thinking about what you asked. What will we do after there’s peace? Until coming here, I don’t know if I ever made a single decision for myself. I became a soldier because it was expected of me. I’ll become the grand magistrate because that is my duty to our people. That’s the end point of my path, and I’ve never looked back. It does me no good to dream of what could’ve been. But to choose something, truly, for myself? To hope? That terrifies me.”

“And what do you want?” she whispered.

“I don’t know.” Hal closed his eyes. “If I could be selfish? Right now, all I want is this.”

Wren tried to ignore the painful squeeze of longing in her chest. She buried her nose in the underside of his jaw so she wouldn’t have to see his face when she said, “Then can I stay with you tonight? Please. I don’t want to be alone.”

This time, he didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

“You understand you’ve made a serious commitment, yes?” She wound her arms around his neck. “I might not let you go.”

“A terrible fate, indeed, to be your prisoner.”

When he kissed her again, she couldn’t help smiling against his mouth. This feeling—too close to belonging, tohappiness—was dangerous. It could heal her, or it could break her. With so much at risk, she couldn’t be sure which it was.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

No one could ever accuse Alistair Lowry of lacking a sense of humor.

On the dressing table was a mask with a long, hooked beak carved from whitewood. It looked like it had been imported straight from last century. Unlike the masks healers wore in the plague outbreak, however, the beak was delicate and tapered, leaving the bottom half of her face exposed. Suppressing a shudder, she replaced it on the table. In her opinion, the mask ruined the beauty of the dress Hannah was currently lacing her into.

Although she was smirking now, Hannah still wouldn’t make eye contact. Early this morning, a knock on the door had startled Wren and Hal awake. Before she had managed a plaintive, “Wait!,” Hannah had already barged in.

“Good morning! I didn’t find you in your room, so I thought you’d be…” She’d trailed off when she caught a glimpse of Hal, hair mussed, trying to disappear beneath the rumpled covers. Her face flushed. “Oh. Come find me when you’re ready.”

Wren still wanted to melt into the floor with embarrassment, but she was yanked from the memory as Hannah pulled the bodice laces taut.

“Goddess above,” she muttered. She took shallow breaths as her ribs acclimated to the pressure of the corset boning. No one had taken her measurements for the gown, and Lowry’s tailor had overestimated how narrow she could make herself.

“You look lovely.” Hannah stepped back to admire her sadistic handiwork, hands planted on her hips. “And stiff!”

“What else could I aspire to?”

As was customary for the winter social season, the gown was black and flowed neatly to the floor with a train like an oil slick. The sleeves, however, were an absurd, impractical nightmare. They swelled at the shoulders, then tapered in and poured off her elbows in a tumble of chiffon and lace. If she stretched out her arms, she looked like a well-groomed bat.