Page 53 of Edge of Stars

“We don’t know if that’s still true.”

I reach for her hand. “But we don’t know the opposite.”

“But we do know the extent of what Hecate’s capable of,” she snaps. “What she’ll do, and who she’ll do it to, in the name of her cause.” A tremor claims her whole form, which looks more fragile than ever in the tattered remains of her wedding gown, the bottom shreds now enhanced by a sarong skirt she’s created from a throw blanket out of the library. “You know I’m right. Maximus, she’s driven to the point of blindness. All her means are justifying her righteous ends.”

“Not arguing,” I return. “But she’s also smart.”

“Which means what?”

“That she knows better than to follow the stunt at the wedding by sending anyone out of that room in a body bag.”

Her frown is tight. “Why?”

“Because it cuts off the chances of ever winning you over.”

She ditches the frown for a full flare of shock. “Does she think she stands a chance now?”

“I really think she does.” Though she still gawks like my statement is an order to the kouzilina for fried ox tongues on Pop-Tarts, I keep going with the defense. “If I’ve learned anything from forced proximity with the pantheon over the last month, it’s that they hate rejection, defeat, and all versions of the word no. Many times, they’ll just pretend that none of them exist.”

She’s not done with the sharp stare. But I take hope, sensing she’s starting to move toward the same. “So she may be more merciful…for strategy’s sake.”

I pull a hand free long enough to tap the tip of my nose, indicating she’s hit the theoretical bull’s-eye. But I quickly drop the gesture, owing her all the honesty of my answer—even its shitty second half.

“At least until she figures out how she can get her hands on Sprout.”

I expect the sudden leech of color from her face. I don’t expect the contrasting flames that consume her eyes at the same rate.

“Does she also figure I’ll levitate her to the top of the Burj Khalifa and then throw her off before that happens?”

A grin splits my face apart. Damn it, the timing is crap—but the moment is also ridiculously right. I can’t recall the last time she was this outrageously bold except for the first time we ever kissed. The school year wasn’t even a week old, and she confronted me about feelings I didn’t want to admit, let alone act on. Heated yearnings. Forbidden fires.

Lusting longings that assault me all over again.

Only this time, I’m the one having to do the confronting.

A face-off that begs me to be forgotten.

It is your wedding night, asshole.

Granted, commemorating the world’s worst wedding on record…

Which means maybe thinking about how the rest of the day can count?

Which might mean not discussing whether her siblings are alive or dead?

“What?” Again, my wife swings me back to the moment with her queenly edict. “You don’t think I’d do it? Or can?”

I haul her hand up to my lips and press her knuckles with a reverent kiss. “My love, if you want to drag that shrew to the top of Mount Everest, I’ll be the one at base camp cheering you on.”

Her tension eases. But not nearly enough. Still, she hitches up one side of her mouth before murmuring, “So is that where your mind’s already gone off to? If I’d known earlier that roasted yak and thukpa would make your smile that big—”

This time I cut her off by going for a full lip-lock. Damn good decision. She welcomes me with open warmth and floors me with her sweet, generous passion. But that’s just the beginning. As if she’s seen the inside of my mind, and the little mental trip I just took to that night in my apartment, she moves to maneuver us closer together. Except unlike that night, there’s a marble countertop between our bodies. Inwardly, I’m already cursing the thing, since even standing isn’t going to help us at this point.

And here I go again, thinking like a mortal guy.

A mortal who married a flying witch.

Well…a levitating one.