5

The gods were fucking with me.

I just knew the old bastards were having a blast at my expense right now. I knew because Nepheli Curiosity was going to be the metaphorical death of me, and this had to be fairly entertaining considering my condition. They put her on my path to mock me. This had to be it.

Okay, fine. So perhaps it had been my choice to walk into her Shop. And yes, it had also been my choice to take her with me and not let the creatures suck the soul right out of her or whatever these guardians did to simple mortals such as herself, but since when was a man going for a little shopping and saving a girl from monsters such a punishment-worthy offense?

Gods, why was I so terrible at kidding myself? If there had ever been a day in desperate need of a little delusion, it had to be this one.

The truth was, this was all my fault. It wasn't destiny or stars or sadistic immortals. It was just me doing what I did best. Making bad decisions.

I'd known the creatures were following me, and yet I'd walked into her Shop in the same slapdash, impulsive way I did all things. But what else could I've done? It was the last Curiosity Shop in the Realm that I hadn't yet searched. The last place the box could have ended up. I had to try. I had to make sure she didn't have it.

Not that I would know what to look for exactly. But I always hoped I would be able to feel it if I ever stumbled upon it. It did contain my heart, after all.

In the words of my friend Walder, I was suffering from an incurable case of selfish bastard, and Nepheli—insufferably stubborn, self-righteous, and yes, fine, annoyingly beautiful Nepheli—was just the latest victim of this rotten disease.

A shoulder smacked against mine as I treaded from the common room to the kitchen to order some food, and the tireless bustle of the inn snapped back into focus.

"If it isn't the pretty boy again," the thick-headed wanker from earlier sneered at me. "Where is that feisty wife of yours?"

One thing about me: I never got mad. Irritated? Surely. A little impatient sometimes? Oh well, no one was perfect. But raving, mouth-frothing mad? Never. In fact, the only good thing about being heartless was that you honestly ceased giving a fuck about anything and anyone. Perhaps the sole remnant of the man I'd once been was that I was just as even-tempered—if my father had taught me anything, it was that a true gentleman never picked a fight. However, he was inclined to finish them if the circumstances demanded it.

So, I whirled around, swung my fist, and punched the ugly cockwad right in the face.

The room outburst in hoots and cheers as he grunted out a curse and catapulted himself to me, making us both lurch backward and crash against the wall.

The fight was brazenly unequal. He was a human who could die. I was a human who could not. He had picked up his fighting skills by brawling in brothels. I had been trained by the most accomplished professionals in the Royal Guard. So perhaps it was cruel of me that I smashed an elbow into the side of his skull, that tender spot high on his temple, and then grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulled his head forward, and beat my forehead down on his nose. But, really now, any man who thought he could talk to a woman the way he'd talked to Nepheli deserved at the very least a broken nose and a few cracked ribs—so I used my momentum and went for the ribs next.

And to think Nepheli had accused me of being mad because she had stood up for herself. I was annoyed that she didn't listen. I told her to keep quiet. I told her not to draw any attention to herself, but she just had to start an argument about the damned rooms, didn't she?

Insufferable woman.

Obviously, things were different when I traveled alone. I could be as reckless and conspicuous as I wanted to be, but Nepheli didn't have the luxury of an unbreakable body. She was star-made, yes, but not undead. I dragged her here, and it was my responsibility now to return her to Elora as intact as she had left it.

I had to believe that even after everything, I still had this kind of honor in me. I had to believe myself salvageable. Otherwise, this wild, unremitting hunt for my heart was all for nothing. What was the point of regaining my heart only to find that I had lost my soul in the process?

So here I was, bloody and vengeful, instead of enjoying a nice evening of booze, cards, and frivolous company.

The wanker shook off the blow I managed at the base of his lungs, leaving a high, pulmonary sound, and charged at me anew, head first, like a godsdamned bull. He sent me in a backward reel just as his friend stalked behind me and smacked a chair on my head, the wooden planks hailing over me in splinters.

For a moment, I felt pain—deep, bone-shuttering pain, and hope sparked in my chest. Because to have a heart was to feel pain, and to feel pain was to be alive.

But then the moment passed.

The moment always passed.

I spat out blood and hauled up my dagger.

This was going to be a long night.