Chapter 40

CHAPTER FORTY

T he whirlwind of transportation magic stops abruptly. The keeper's arms remain around me as my knees hit a floor I recognize.

I'm back in the apartment where we first stayed in New York. I catch a glimpse of the lounge room around us, the little kitchen on my far right, and the bedroom behind me.

Then my wings crash through the plush seat at my back, cutting through the stuffing and exploding fluffy bits of material into the air around us.

I can't turn to assess the damage because my head is spinning from the bumpy ride, and my stomach is billowing with nausea.

Being rescued in this fashion isn't doing me any favors.

I discover that I'm leaning to my left, my hand planted on the carpet while the keeper's arms remain around my waist. Somehow, he's gripping me beneath my wings and keeping me pressed to his chest while he, too, is on his knees.

I gasp for breath and squeeze my eyes shut to try to stop the world from spinning.

My voice is a dry rasp, but at least my jaw has healed. "How are you here?" My confusion at his appearance is replaced with intense concern. "You were unconscious when I left."

He scoops up my other arm—the one I planted on the floor—before he crushes me to his chest.

His voice is a broken rumble in my ears. "I woke up and you were gone."

"Oh. Okay," I whisper against his shoulder, and then I jolt again with concern. "My pack?"

"Safe," he says. "I convinced them to remain behind and give us space."

The hour that they will probably wait in the Underworld could equate to half a day here. I don't even attempt to do the math on that, but I picture Anarchy pacing the entire time.

"You put yourself in danger." The keeper snarls, demanding my attention.

I groan, still unable to fully open my eyes. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"No." His chest deflates. Then he repeats himself. "No."

I crack open my eyes, taking deep breaths as the spinning sensation I was experiencing eases and I can move my head again.

Ascertaining that the light around me isn't going to upset my vision, I shimmy my hand up between us so I can tug my blindfold off.

I find myself staring up into his eyes, surprised by the face he's wearing now.

No more blue-eyed angry persona.

No more black dragon.

No more silver hair.

This is a new face and…

It doesn't scare me or feed my darkness or make me wonder what he's thinking behind the mask he's wearing.

I bite my lip, peering at him, shimmying my right hand farther up between us to trace the line of his jaw and marvel at his new appearance.

His eyes are predominantly blue with flecks of gray, and his hair is the color of a wolf's fur. A gray wolf. Similar to the one that raced across the snow back in the wintery landscape of the Underworld.

He makes me feel impossibly calm, recklessly at peace. As if there were nothing to worry about.

We are a beautiful darkness, and that's all there is.

"What is this face?" I whisper, my breath catching. "Who are you now?"

His eyes crinkle at the corners and a hesitant smile touches his lips. "I think this is what I might have looked like." He gives a small shake of his head. "But I don't know. It's just a feeling."

I press my fingertips once again to his jaw, not quite daring to close the gap between our lips, even though everything within me wants to kiss this face that is so undeniably open to me.

There are no lies in this face.

Even so, he was badly injured and a fearful part of me understands that he is still mortally wounded. Somehow, he woke up and came to me, but these moments might not last long.

I need to speak while I can.

"I understand your anger," I say, refusing to look away. "I feel it, and I respect it."

He gives a small nod. "As I understand yours."

I hope he hears me as I continue. "You are entitled to your vengeance."

Again, he nods. "As you are to yours."

My other hand presses to his chest and I flex my fingers to his skin, registering the clothing he's wearing. A simple, gray tunic and pants. No more opulent silk or dark cloaks.

Simple, humble clothing.

I press my forehead to the edge of his jaw before moving upward to nudge my cheek to his. "Why do I feel so safe with you right now?"

It might not be the most important question.

Or maybe it is.

His lips move against my ear, and there isn't a hint of a threat in his voice, despite what he says. "You probably shouldn't."

Still, his arms stroke my lower back, easing the tense muscles, his fingers brushing up along my aching spine before stopping where the bulk of my wings prevent him from reaching further.

The way he presses my muscles on either side of my spine relieves some of my pain—the pain of releasing and carrying my wings—and I relax against him.

Finally, the clamped muscles ease enough that I can retract my wings.

The heinous, black feathers fold inward and disappear from view, and I slump against him with relief. His hands work their way up to my shoulder blades while I nestle my head in the crook of his neck and he rests his cheek against my forehead.

And now I need to face what I know is still true.

"You're dying," I whisper, hoping that, by some dark miracle, he will tell me he no longer is.

"I am."

I don't fight the catch in my voice. "You're hiding your wounds from me again."

"Yes."

"Is being awake now… Is it harming you?"

He's slower to answer and I read the worst into his silence.

"Then stop it!" I snap. "Stop being awake!"

He strokes my hair, strokes my back. "You can't prevent my death, Caera. But there are things I need to tell you before I go."

"What could be so important that you'd hasten your death?—"

He presses his lips to mine.

A soft kiss that steals the words from my mouth.

When he pulls back, but not far, he says, "I need you to know that despite all of the darkness in you, and despite all of the darkness in me , and despite your father's predictions and your need for retribution and the fact that you could rend the world to pieces if you chose to…" He stops to take a breath, the calm in his voice enfolding me. "Your heart gave me something I didn't have before and I never expected to feel."

"What could that possibly be?" I ask, my voice bleak.

"Faith," he says.

I continue to search his eyes, a new pain entering my chest, and once again, I feel all the little fissures in my heart, all the pieces, sliding apart. "It can't be worth it. For a heart that keeps breaking and won't heal…"

His lips rise in a soft smile. "It's worth it," he says. "Even now, the heart you gave me hammers in my chest with all its beautiful darkness. Your pain. Your fury. The protectiveness you feel for your pack. Your reason. Your logic. Your restraint. Your ability to reject what you could take in the present because you're determined to achieve a greater purpose." His thumb gently strokes my jaw, his gaze impossibly calm. "You proved to me that I still have a soul."

A light enters his eyes that wasn't there before. "You gave me a gift because if I have a soul, then I can find peace. I can join my ancestors where their magic is kept safe by the old magic keeper and?—"

"No." I snarl, sliding forward, slipping my legs to either side of his hips, wrapping my legs around him, wrapping my arms across his broad back, holding on to him as hard as I can. "I won't allow it."

"Caera," he says. "You can't stop this. It's already done."

I shake my head rapidly, refusing to listen. "No."

"Caera." His voice rumbles again.

My forehead crinkles against his chest because he's used that word several times now, and I'm starting to wonder what it means. "What did you call me?"

"Caera," he says. "Beloved. My heart."

Hot tears spill down my cheeks. Since I stole the book, so many secrets and lies have been exposed. I've done things I never imagined that I could. Nearly all were by accident or instinct. I had no plan. I followed no set path. But somehow, it's all led me to this moment.

A moment when I need to decide what he is to me.

He was my enemy by birth. But now…

My mother's voice echoes back to me.

You were loved.

I am loved.

I have no name for the keeper now. What do I call a being who gives me a beautiful night sky and then tells me he can't share it with me?

"I won't let you die," I say. "I will heal my heart and you will heal with it."

"You can't stop this. What matters is what you do with the crown?—"

"I don't want it."

"That's why you have to take it." His fingers brush my cheek, coaxing me to look at him. "It can't fall into the wrong hands."

"It shouldn't fall into my hands," I say, adamant, because even now, even with all the honesty in his eyes and the absence of subterfuge, I sense there's something he isn't telling me.

And then it hits me.

What he's been hiding from me.

"I gave you the power in my heart." I try to speak past the fear rising within me. "If you die, what happens to that power?"

His jaw clenches, and I know the answer.

"It will die with you," I whisper, a deep horror billowing within me. "I will become heartless. Alive but without feeling. And I will lose my reason. My protectiveness. My restraint. My feeling . All of the things that make me me . All of that will die with you."

I try to breathe. "When you die, I will become a monster."