Chapter Thirty-Five

My jaw dropped. “ You stole something? Alright. This is an easy fix. We just need to tuck our tails between our legs and give it back. What did you steal?”

Erik’s mouth set into a line. He grabbed an armful of shirts and dumped them into a leather-bound trunk at the foot of his bed. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why?”

“I stole from the king.”

“My king or—”

“Volgaard.”

Well, that complicated things. “So, we tuck our tails extra tight and give it ba—”

He shut the trunk with a thud. “He already took them back.”

“Then what’s the problem? The thing’s been returned. The king’s been made whole. What did you steal?”

“The Lover’s Boxes.”

Well, shit. If that was the weapon, and if the King of Volgaard had taken them back, I now had a problem. A major problem. “Why did you steal the Lover’s Boxes?”

“Here. Untangle this.” He handed me a ball of fishing twine and moved to refold a stack of blankets. “You’ve felt the thrall…how strong it can be. Different people seem to have different tolerances. Signey says she hardly feels it, but King Herleif is susceptible. He became obsessed. Stopped eating, bathing—”

“Bo mentioned that. Are you okay? I feel like this is stress cleaning.”

Erik shot me a glare and slunk to put the blankets on the bed.

Not okay, then. I picked my fingers through the knots, bristly fibers catching under my nails. “Why did you steal the Lover’s Boxes?”

“King Herleif was running Volgaard into the ground—same thing he’s doing to the Sanokes, only worse. We stole the boxes and things got better until—”

“You can’t let your friends take the fall for this.”

He snatched up a few empty bags. “You think I want Bo and Kaspar to take the fall? I’d rather be the one rotting in prison.”

“Let’s not be dramatic. Maybe if you talked to him—told him it was you—you could—”

That lock of hair fell over his forehead, and he pulled himself higher, feral eyes, white teeth. “Oh-ho, he knows it was me.”

“Okay, now you’re being really dramatic.”

Erik shot me a sulky look and hung the bags by the door.

“Then why arrest Bo and Kaspar?” I continued.

“Because I’m Rythja’s general while my father is dying. Arresting one of his generals would look bad. It’s a power play. One that House Kynda is more than happy to—”

House Kynda. “The heaven hounds?”

“ Helvedeshunds .”

I wedged a loop free. “Helv-dah-sounds.”

He threw his hands in the air and stalked toward the bed. “You know what? Just call them snake people. Or hellhounds. Anyway, I’m convinced the Lover’s Boxes have something to do with what happened to the Sanokes. That city? That wasn’t supposed to happen.” He found a coil of rope. Where did he find a coil of rope? “Now, look. I know you’re a spy—”

My hands slipped, a piece of flax splintering my thumb. “I’m…not a spy.”

He pursed his lips and wagged a finger. “You’re not a very good spy. There’s a difference. But go ahead.” A little flourish of the hand. “‘I’m not a very good spy.’ Say it.”

The splinter throbbed, pulsing and warm.

Was this another one of his games? Was he trying to trap me? And if I admitted I was a spy, then what? Would he drag me out of his tent? Kill me? If I died, no one would know about the Lover’s Box, about Hans. If I made a run for it, how far could I get? I was in the middle of the Vold camp. Probably not far. But if I stayed…

If I stayed…

Outside, waves cracked. Rain pattered hard against the tent, dappling shadows.

I lunged for the door.

Erik caught my waist, spinning me back.

I elbowed him in the ribs. “If you think I’m going to go quietly—”

“Relax, Isabel. I just— oof! —want to hear you—”

My knee hit the bedpost, rattling the lamp and the inkwell on the side table. My shoulder collided with his jaw.

I reached back, tangling my fingers through his shirt. My knuckles grazed something cool.

I snatched the knife and flipped it on him. My hands trembled. “Don’t come any closer.”

His eyes flicked between me and the knife. He smirked and leaned into the blade. The tip pressed against the hollow of his throat. “Or what?”

With one strong motion, he grabbed my wrist and spun the knife out of my grip, and then I was on my back. He tucked the knife back into his belt and straddled me, sitting on my hips.

“‘I’m not a very good spy.’ Say it.”

I dug my fingers into the weave of his rug. “I’m not a spy.”

He puffed his chest and tipped his chin, a champion, a god. “Close, but not quite. Let’s try again. ‘I’m not a very good spy.’”

“I’m not a spy!”

“Shall I list how I know?” He held up a hand and ticked his fingers. “The worms. The baths. That time I caught you snooping outside my tent.”

“Because I was bringing you coffee! I was trying to be nice.”

He crossed his arms. “I should clarify. I caught you outside my tent on more than one occasion .”

“I like to take walks.”

He gave a skeptical look.

“Outside your tent.” I shoved at his chest. “Now get off.”

He leaned forward, placing both arms around my head, and now his body was a cage, and I was caught beneath it. “‘I’m not a very good spy.’ Your turn.”

This close, I could see the curl of his lashes, the faintest fracture of blue in his eyes, almost the catch of light on quartz. This close, I could smell his smoke and wool scent, the way it clung to his hair, his clothes, the way his shirt hung open, exposing the barest sliver of chiseled chest.

I could kiss him if I tried.

I wanted to try.

I tipped my head back, caught the upside-down slant of the world, the honey-wood legs of his chair, his bed, the little slit in the tent flap where rain darkened the rug to cobalt. “You’re not a good spy?” It was childish, it was, but I didn’t have anything left.

He caught my chin, pulled it back. “On the contrary,” he said, “I’m an excellent spy. You’re not. Go ahead. Say it.” His thumb lingered on my jaw.

My heart hammered.

Now his mouth was so close to mine, the softness of his lower lip, the dip of his cupid’s bow. If I tipped my chin a little higher…

He slid his hand down my neck, stopping to play with the collar of my shirt. “I could always…” his voice went husky, “make you say it.” He rolled the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, a fleecy, blue-flecked gray. His knuckles grazed my chest. “You wanted me to make you do things at the Rose it was about Hans and his legacy, and I needed to know, needed, needed, needed—

“Tell me anything,” I said.

Coward .

Hans deserved more.

Deserved better.

This isn’t about you.

The thing inside me smoothed my hair and whispered, This is only about you.

Erik’s fingers stilled, then started. “There’s this story about a sorceress and a fisherman—”

The fist in my heart released. I lifted my head off his chest. “Hey. That’s mine.”

He laughed and squeezed my shoulder. “Okay. Calm down. What I meant to say… There’s this story about a prince and a weaver. The prince was cursed as a baby, and anyone who saw him turned to stone…”

As Erik told the story, the world went hazy and golden at the edges, his voice hollow and far, and it was an anchor, a lifeline, all rich reds and starling blues, and we were infinity, and we were heartbeats, and we were gravity , hurling through the black expanse.

It

fell

apart.

“Isabel?” His fingertips smoothed a stray lock from my cheek. Or maybe it was a kiss. “I see you.”

Then the swell of sleep swept me under.