36. Nora

36

NORA

I leave Bennie alive. I may regret that later.

The rage that burned in my gut no less than an hour ago is gone, replaced by a deep-rooted emptiness.

Everyone knows .

The Seelie eyes on me feel different now, searing on my skin as I pass through the party to leave. On the way, I snatch a deserted bottle of liquor from one of the high-tops. Then I pilfer a pack of cigarettes off a Seelie who thought it was an excellent idea to try to flirt with the infamous soul-stealer .

I make it up to the seventh floor, taking a swig of liquor with every other step. It stings my throat, but the pain is good. And when the burn fades, the alcohol fills me with sweet numbness.

Everyone knows.

My mind is both eerily quiet yet entirely too loud; the static in my ears is overwhelming.

I pass the door where Imogen sleeps beyond—I can't gather the courage to wake her in this state.

She said she wants me when I'm scared, but that's a lie. She won't want me when she learns the truth.

I stop in front of Josie's door, but my hand pauses before I knock. Josie's always cleaning up my messes.

She shouldn't have to, but she does.

She knows the stakes— has known them ever since we were little and Pride made her sort through the trauma in my head. She's kept my secret and never judged me for it, which is more than I could have ever asked.

I can't ask her to catch me as I fall tonight.

Everyone knows.

My feet guide me from the seventh floor and up to the eighth, my body moving of its own accord. My mind is lost in itself until I'm jolted back into consciousness when my knuckles hit the door.

There's a moment where I don't think he'll answer, that this was a mistake, and I should turn around and find somewhere to pass these big feelings alone. But the door swings open, Silas rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His white hair is in a state of rumpled chaos, and when he runs a hand through it, it does nothing to tame the mess. He leans against the door, opening it enough to stick half his frame out; he's shirtless, only wearing long pajama pants, and my attention snags on the tattoo spread across his chest.

At the center sits a blackwork butterfly, framed by two birds that have their beaks aimed at it. The birds' wings are spread open and crest down his pectorals and over his shoulders.

"Nora?"

"You have a butterfly tattoo," I state.

His mouth parts, his tongue darting out to graze the bottom lip.

"Yes… I do," he drawls. He leans forward, head swiveling to see the hall behind me is empty. "It's the middle of the night."

I take a deep breath and do one of my least favorite things in the world.

I ask for help.

"You said any time I needed escape, it would be there for me," I say. "I'm calling that favor in."

Silas stalls, his white-knuckled hand gripping the doorframe before he steps back, waving me in with a wide sweep of his arm.

"Welcome to my humble abode."

His eyes track me as I enter the room; it's toasty, a healthy fire crackling in a fireplace. I don't waste time inspecting the rest of the room—I don't need to see his bed nor the bathroom—the fire is what I need.

I collapse onto the floor in front of the flames, the rug scratching against my shins. I fumble the smokes box one handed, but manage to get one out and cast the box aside. My cigarette doesn't take long to catch flame when I fit it through the grate of the fireplace. Pulling it to my lips, I take a deep drag, and let a different kind of burn work its way through me.

"I've always thought that was an archaic way of proving one's loyalty."

Smoke unfurls from my parted lips as I release my breath. I tilt my head over my shoulder—Silas stands above me, staring intently at my exposed back. At my scars.

Everyone knows .

I shift on my knees. My back falls against the coffee table and my legs stretch out in front of me; I turn the table into armor, defending my scars from curious eyes.

"The pain was worth the reward," I say.

"Was it?"

Those black eyes, so observant, make my skin itch.

I turn back to the fire.

"At the time," I say.

The only sound between us is the rustling of Silas's cotton pajamas as he sits next to me, back leaning against the coffee table like mine. He pulls his legs to his chest, arms banding around his shins. He lets a rosy cheek fall to his kneecap, the action squishing his mouth into a frown.

"What do you need escape from?" he asks.

"I had an enlightening conversation with Benevolence," I say through another drag of smoke.

"You went to the revelry?"

"I was invited," I say. I pause for another sip of alcohol. The liquid sloshes in the bottle when I place it between us on the rug. My vision starts to fuzz around the edges, giving me hope that I may be able to sleep tonight. "He thinks his father has nefarious plans for us on this trip."

Silas hums. "Wrath and I expected as much. Our own plan was never without risk."

"There's a but waiting at the end of that sentence."

"Of course, there is." Silas smiles. " But we're already here. If he pulls anything, I'll handle it."

"You'll handle it ?"

"Mhm," he hums. "I'm the king. That's what I do. And I'm the one who brought us here. Everyone's safety is my responsibility."

"Fair," I say, but internally I scoff.

Will my safety matter to him past tomorrow?

My cigarette is on its last leg; I suck as much life from it as I can before flicking it above the grate and into the fire. The flames pop at the disruption. Embers float into the chimney like snow flurries.

"But all that wouldn't rattle the Pride I've come to know… What else happened?" Silas asks, though he has the decency to have his eyes trained on the fire.

The flames are calming, an array of red, yellow, orange, and where it's hottest, blinding white.

"I can't tell you," I say.

"Okay," he says, reaching for the liquor. He takes a swing and coughs. "That's terrible."

"Yeah, it's pretty shit."

"So, why can't you tell me?"

I tug the bottle from his grasp. "You'll kill me."

"That bad a secret, huh?"

"Yeah."

"You should have a little more faith in me."

"Says the Unseelie King," I snort.

And when my eyes cut to his in my periphery, I'm frozen by the vulnerability in those night-like irises of his.

"I'd like to think of you as a friend," he says. "We're killing a man together, are we not?"

"Is that what constitutes friendship these days?"

"For us, maybe." He shrugs, then we both go back to staring at the fire.

The clock on the wall ticks sixty times before I speak again.

"Is it bad that I'm nervous to go back to my room?" I ask.

"To Lust?"

I nod, my lips twisting. "Why do you never call her by her name?"

"Do you want me to call her Imogen?" he asks in turn. "I don't think she'd want me to."

"I guess not, then. Forget I asked."

"But to your earlier point, I don't think that's the right question to ask." Then, he clarifies, "To ask if it's bad."

"Then what's the right question?"

"Do you love her?"

I huff a single, lifeless laugh. "What do you know about love anyway?"

"Far less than you."

I feel that giddy thread of energy flow through me, the alcohol finally settling in my bloodstream. I push onto my knees and turn to Silas, sitting back on my heels and quirking a brow at him.

"Weren't you the one who told me that I'd have to be in love to know if it's selfish? Or were you just posturing?"

"You caught me."

"You love Wrath, though."

His nose scrunches up. "Yes, but it's the same way you love your Second."

I hum.

"Were you right?" he asks.

"Hm?"

"Is love, at its core, selfish?"

"I think so, yes," I say. "I'm selfish to want her and my revenge too."

"I think you need to decide what's most important to you. You're this close. Will you regret it in fifty years if you turn away?"

Silas stands, taking the bottle of liquor with him.

"Hopefully I won't regret anything in fifty years," I say. Then I twist, leaning on the coffee table with my forearms. I track Silas as he paces deeper into the room, placing the bottle on the bedside table. "Also, that's a redundant question. You'd never let me leave here without completing our mission."

"I'm glad you're coming to terms with the inevitable," he laughs through a yawn, reaching up to the sky.

"We may be aligned in this, Silas, but you need to remember—" I stand, so I can level with him, the liquor that's running through my veins making me bold. "I'm never going to be a pawn for you to move around on a whim."

"You're not a pawn," he scoffs, then drops down onto the bed, his legs dangling off the edge.

"No?" I ask.

"If you were a chess piece, you'd be a queen, Nora." His hands splay in front of him, summoning shadows and molding them into floating chess pieces that crisscross in an imaginary game. "No rules. Moves wherever she wishes without consequence."

I roll my eyes because I, more than others, know there are always consequences.

Everyone knows.

My boot scuffs against the carpet as I shift in place. I got the distraction I needed. My mind has quieted enough that if I head back downstairs now, I know I'll be able to get at least a wink of sleep. And I'll need the rest if I'm going to kill my uncle.

A beat passes, the weight of morning pressing down on us. Then, I step towards the door.

"Nora?" Silas calls, stopping me in my tracks.

His tone is weary and laced with loneliness.

"Yes?"

He's staring up at the canopy of the four-poster bed, fingers laced and thumbs twiddling over his tattooed chest.

"Remember what bad people do to those their enemies love," he says.

"I could never forget, Silas."

Silas hums. Then he groans, sitting up in the bed. He squints at the clock on the wall. The hands tick past midnight.

A sad smile softens his features when he tilts his head back at me.

"Happy Solstice, Nora."