Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

It took about a week before Esoti gave Vaasa the okay to start running with her. They did not speak about Kosana, did not spar with others, but Esoti was kind and forthcoming. She told her about her childhood, about growing up here in Mireh, and how there was never a time in her life when she didn’t want to join the corps.

Her father was a long-retired member, an extraordinary warrior, apparently.

On day one, she asked Esoti to show her how to use that sheath they all seemed to keep attached to their arms.

“It is a secret weapon,” Esoti said with a glittering smile as she strapped on a practice sheath—one holding a blunt blade. “But mostly, it is simple. If you catch the blade, aim for the throat.”

Vaasa had yet to catch the blade. She cut her fingers a few times, though, much to the warrior’s chagrin.

In the three weeks that passed, she said little to Kosana and spent the majority of her time with the coven. They focused primarily on balance and grounding, though she had begun delving into the mythos surrounding Veragi and discerning truth from whispers. She learned more about the inheritance of magic; each coven was a little different, if their sources could be trusted. Veragi witches only passed their magic through the maternal line, but others passed their magic through both the maternal and paternal lines. Vaasa took particular interest in the eastern sodalities in Hazut and Wrultho. The one in Hazut was named after Umir, the god of peace, while the sodality in Wrultho was named after Unir, the goddess of war. Their respective consorts, Zuheia—the goddess of life and healing—and Zetyr—the god of bargains and souls—were whispered to be lovers.

Zuheia witches could heal miraculously, while Zetyr witches filtered a dark, deadly magic. She’d read about them in Dihrah. They summoned demon-like creatures and did incredible things—until they were wiped from Icruria altogether. Their magic depended on bargains with mortals, which made them cunning and maniacal, as it was only through those twisted bargains that the Zetyr could access their power. Ultimately, they were hunted and slaughtered for their transgressions. Shivers ran down her back every time they discussed the Zetyrs’ mistakes. Something about them felt close to Vaasa, like she was inching on their fate. She, too, felt as though she’d made a bargain with Reid and would surely be killed for it.

Which was why, over and over, Vaasa asked the same question: Can you tell me more about my mother ?

And each time, Melisina’s answer was the same: Focus on what you do know.

Biting her tongue, Vaasa waited patiently.

Until one day, with tentative words, Melisina stood from the table and said, “Come with me.”

The two women began climbing the stairs to the third floor. Black walls lined the space as they passed by the windows, light flooding onto the mosaic floors and bouncing off the ivy strung from the ceilings. Iron hooks held the many lanterns, though none of them were lit with the sun so bright. She’d learned they were powered by the witches of Una, sparks of light that grew only in darkness. It was the sole coven that the Veragi were close with, and they shared many of their secrets.

As they made it to the back of the third floor, Vaasa found a gallery of paintings from floor to ceiling, all mounted on the enormous wall. She’d often glanced at it, though she had yet to delve this far into the coven’s vaulted room.

Women, flowers, landscapes, children, and animals adorned the matted canvases in different sizes and shapes. A few immediately caught Vaasa’s eye for their use of color—every hue of the rainbow taking form to create something more lifelike than Vaasa had ever been able to put to paper. One was just swipes of gray and black, an animal Vaasa thought was only found in Zataar. An elephant.

“It’s time you learn about your great-grandmother,” Melisina said. “My mentor, and a founder of this very coven.”

Hands falling strangely at her side, Vaasa did not speak for at least three breaths.

Did not blink.

“What?” she finally said.

“Her name was Freya.”

That was the moment she noticed the signatures along the bottoms of each painting. They matched that name—Freya. Her great-grandmother? Her mother did not speak of their extended family, not ever.

Looking up, her throat tightened. “She… painted these?” For a moment, Vaasa wondered if she’d been the one who’d written her name in the notebook she’d chosen. She studied the small signature, a haunting anxiety growing within her.

What else could she not see coming?

Melisina nodded, gazing at each one with a smile. Nostalgia made a home in the lines of her face, but it didn’t appear to be a painful one. Rather, it radiated a sense of calm. Peace. Like perhaps Melisina had lost something more significant than could ever be named, but grief could not snuff out the love anymore.

Yet there was something in Vaasa’s bones that rattled. That reached. Once again, she gazed up at the gallery wall; her eyes couldn’t settle on any painting in particular.

Until she saw something that stole the air from the room.

Glittering water of red and orange, the sun setting over the peak of a distant hill, drying grass and yellow wildflowers dotting the rock-covered slope. There, on the right side, was a weeping tree with falling white blooms.

It was the view from Reid’s veranda.

There were at least seven paintings with that same tree—different seasons and times of day. One was a depiction of the tree at night, which glowed like its own form of moonlight on the reflection of the water.

Vaasa stepped forward and then spun to Melisina, mouth agape.

“The villa once belonged to Freya, and she passed it down to me. Now it belongs to my son,” Melisina said.

“She lived here?”

“Freya fled Asterya at fifteen after her mother died, and she searched high and low for an explanation to the magic she had inherited. She found that explanation in my own grandmother. They started this coven, and both of them had their daughters together, here.”

At first, Vaasa denied the idea altogether. She fought against it with the veracity of a warrior. Her own great-grandmother was one of the witches who founded the coven of Veragi? No , she thought as she took a step back. No, that can’t be.

Melisina continued. “My own mother died while giving birth to me, and the magic passed down. I shouldn’t have survived it, but I suppose Veragi was not ready to lose my bloodline. So Freya took me in and raised me as her own. Her daughter—your grandmother Esme—left Icruria for her ancestral home in Asterya. She gave birth to your mother there and never brought her back to Mireh.”

Silvery hair and a wretchedly bitter face passed in Vaasa’s memories. Vaasa had known her grandmother, a woman who had been married to one of the lords of Asterya, but hardly ever saw her. She died when Vaasa was barely ten, and she never visited the castle. Not after Vaasa’s father had begun his conquests. If what Melisina said was true…

“My grandmother left Mireh? Why?”

A melancholy look flashed across Melisina’s features. “Esme did not see the magic as a blessing—not in the way I do. Not in the way I hope you will someday. In her own words, she wanted to live her life normally for as long as she could, and she didn’t see that as a possibility in Icruria. She wanted what she believed Freya had given up.”

Vaasa got the sudden urge to sit down or at least lean up against something, but after gazing back at the paintings, she didn’t think it possible to move. She thought back to what she could recall from her younger age, but it was fuzzy at best. She remembered her mother disappearing in grief after Esme died, remembered Ozik making excuses as to why the empress was often unavailable for dinner, the advisor always knowing where everyone in their family was. “My mother must not have known she would inherit the magic,” she whispered. Why had she never thought of that before? That her own mother may have been just as shocked at the arrival of the magic? If Esme had shunned the Veragi altogether…

Her grandmother had stolen an entire existence from Vaasa and her mother. Had ripped this coven right from their hands.

But she supposed Esme felt that way about her own fate, too. About her own mother. Perhaps in Esme’s eyes, Freya had chosen Icruria, chosen the magic and the coven, over her. It was as if the women in her family inherited more than magic—their line was fraught with resentment. Freya to Esme, Esme to Vaasa’s own mother, and Vaasa’s mother to her.

“I first heard from your mother two years ago,” Melisina admitted. Reid’s tidbit of information tumbled through Vaasa’s mind—that her mother had sent her here. That Melisina had instructed him not to dissolve their marriage agreement.

“Is that why you insisted Reid keep our marriage agreement?” Vaasa finally asked. “Because my mother asked you to?”

Melisina pursed her lips. Nodded. “Esme never told your mother what would happen to her. Instead, she let her go off and become an empress of a nation, all the while knowing she would reach a stage in her life where the magic would appear. She let her have a daughter of her own and never once whispered an ounce of the truth.”

The cruelty. The blatant selfishness . “My mother did no differently,” Vaasa asserted, a bit of bitterness on her tongue.

“Vena spent a summer here,” Melisina corrected, and the sound of her mother’s name made Vaasa’s chest hurt in such an unexpected way. “Just after we first made contact. Do you remember that?”

Vaasa thought back on the past few years, and… yes. Nodding, she distinctly remembered those few months when her mother had visited extended family up north. To escape the cold for a while , she’d told them. Ozik and her father had practically dragged Vena back by force, claiming the violence along the shared Icrurian and Asteryan border was too great to allow her to stay any longer in northern Asterya. Vena had been flighty and cold for those months after. Vaasa hadn’t thought much of it—she was concerned with studying and a brown-haired guard five years her junior she only let in her bed for a few months and never let herself care for. Not after what had been done to the first soldier she’d loved. Instead, she had been deepening her understanding of the language of Zataar, where she wanted to go the moment she was able.

“Vena was not evil,” Melisina explained. “She was… lost. And confused. Most Veragi witches don’t inherit their propensity for magic until late in their lives. We are much better equipped to handle it then, the anger and impulsivity from youth having faded. Those who inherit this gift at a younger age are often killed by the force itself or led astray by some terrible influence looking to profit off what a young, powerful Veragi witch can do.”

“Are we more powerful when we’re young?” Vaasa asked.

Melisina shook her head. “It isn’t the age that matters. It’s the time you have with the magic to master it and help it take shape. Being only in your midtwenties, you will be extraordinary when you are older.”

“But you… you’ve had your magic since birth?” Vaasa asked.

“She is the most powerful Veragi witch to have ever existed,” a voice said from the side. Amalie moved from around the bookshelf then, arms crossed as she leaned against it, holding her books like she had just returned from one of her many classes. “You and I will be legends, too.”

“I am frightening,” Melisina confirmed, either reading the look on Vaasa’s face or plain reading her mind. Settling her hand affectionately on Amalie’s shoulder, Melisina looked at the beautiful girl and let out a breath. “But there are greedy people in this world, and magic is already a rare enough commodity, once threatened to be bought and sold among territories. I do not know what your father knew, or if he knew anything at all. I know with certainty that your mother spent years trying to trace her own ancestry back here. That summer, we began making plans for your betrothal to my son. She thought if you were in close proximity to us, you would be better prepared than she was when she eventually passed.”

Why, after everything she’d taught and promised her, had she jumped to marriage instead of an ambassadorship? Her mother’s coldness flashed behind Vaasa’s eyes. Her absence. Her explosive nature and the way she could become so overwhelmed by her own emotions that she fell apart…

Had that always been the magic, then? Had she struggled in silence? Had she even known what it was when it first appeared?

Vaasa always thought her mother hated her life. Hated her husband and her foolish fortress. But what if her mother had been just another desperate victim of Asterya? A lost witch, as consumed as Vaasa had been just months ago?

To send Vaasa here must have cost her mother something .

The heaviness in Vaasa’s chest grew at the horrifying thought of what she’d stumbled upon that night. “She lost control,” Vaasa realized, eyes flicking between the softness of Amalie’s face and the calm neutrality of Melisina’s. “The void, it consumed her, didn’t it?”

Melisina paused for a moment, but then sighed. “It is possible.”

Far too many moving pieces shuffled in her head.

If her father had known… would he have protected her mother? Or would he have exploited her? Had he exploited her?

Would he have exploited Vaasa, too?

Of course he would have. He’d used her every day of his life, magic or not.

Which begged the question of what truly happened to them both. Had it been a flu that took her father, or a vengeful woman with the power of a goddess in her veins? Her father’s sickness had looked real. He’d gone quickly, and no one questioned the cause. Poison? Perhaps he really was just sick. She didn’t think Veragi magic could do that.

But what had her mother been through? So much so that she would bargain Vaasa into a marriage she had to have known would give her a claim to the Asteryan Empire?

Had that been her mother’s goal?

Anger coursed through Vaasa. It stole her peace and replaced it with something vicious. Vaasa saw a clear option, one she swore to herself she would have taken—her mother should have told her the truth. Should have armed her for the life she would live. At least then, this all would have felt like a choice.

Perhaps she wouldn’t have run from Reid that night at all. Maybe she would have left years ago. Married him willingly. Learned of the streak of gentleness under his skin and maybe even grown to love him. She could have lived happily, safely, here in Mireh.

The water in her gut transformed into a silvery fish that grew teeth, long and jagged, and she swore the magic would feast on her insides.

“I’ve had enough for today,” Vaasa said coolly, lifting her chin and turning.

“Please don’t go,” Amalie said from behind her. “We can do something else, maybe read another book together?”

A deep longing burrowed into Vaasa, mirroring what she swore she saw in Amalie’s eyes. She hated that part of herself, the one that wanted exactly what Amalie offered. The truth was that Vaasa didn’t want to be alone, but she’d learned that being alone was the best way to keep everyone else safe. “I’m going,” was all she managed.

A moment of silence treaded on the heels of her decision. Then Melisina followed her silently but didn’t add another word. Amalie moved out of their way, though her doe eyes seemed to shutter with disappointment.

Vaasa didn’t say goodbye to anyone in the room before she slammed into the Icrurian heat and loaded her horse. Not even bothering to enjoy the beauty of the Lower Garden at midday, she rode back to the villa.

The chosen home of her maternal ancestor.

The one that didn’t belong to Vaasa at all.

She knew what Melisina would say. Knew that she held the answer in her hands: to acknowledge the pain and to take control of the cycle.

It was too much. This was all too much.

Anger took everything she had with it, and nothing else would sit comfortably in her hands.

Irritability picked at Vaasa as she sat upon the veranda and stared out at the landscape she’d seen in that painting. Glittering turquoise waters, yellow swaying grass, and that large tree at the top of the hill.

It all seemed to taunt her.

She did as Melisina taught her: sat quietly and erased her thoughts, only focusing on the feeling of the magic in her stomach. How it felt as it pulsed through her veins and along her skin. She thought of it like water, thought of it like air, thought of it like a damn hawk with gliding wings and a white belly.

No matter how hard she tried, she had yet to find a sense of calm.

Sometimes she felt violence—it became a jungle cat, scratching at her insides. Other times she felt panic—that was when the snake returned.

The worst was when she felt nothing at all.

But she did not explode. The mist didn’t dance on her fingers or crawl across the stone veranda. It stayed put inside of her, fangs digging in softly as a constant reminder.

No amount of blankets or Icrurian heat seemed to ebb the shaking of her wrists and hands. Even in the very early evening, they were already sore from the magic and the clenching of her fists, much like how her jaw felt tight. She tried to release her shoulders from her neck—

Someone burst through the patio doors, and on instinct, Vaasa hid her notebook under her right leg.

“Vaasalisa,” Reid said as he stormed out onto the veranda, looking overwhelmed when he found her. “We have company.”

Her stomach dropped at the thought of any social interaction while her magic felt this reactive. But by the severe cut of Reid’s mouth, she thought he may be just as distressed as her. Had she ever seen him so… frazzled? “Who is here?”

“Who isn’t?” He raked a hand through his hair and began to pace. “The councilors.”

“All of them?”

“The ones that matter. Galen. Kenen.” His eyes shuttered just slightly. “Marc.”

Galen of Irhu. Kenen of Sigguth. The two councilors reigned from the coastal territories to the west, Sigguth building the quick-as-wind ships that could navigate the Settara and Irhu holding one of the most notorious naval forces on the continent. Inextricably linked, these two territories depended upon each other principally. Both of these men were invariably important—their two votes could determine the outcome of this election—yet it was that last name that seemed to dig claws into Reid’s skin.

Marc, the councilor from Mireh.

Each territory had its own election cycles and terms—in Mireh, a foreman served for five years, with a two-term limit, and only those elected in a headman term were eligible to run for the highest position in the land. Reid had bested the incumbent and stolen that man’s opportunity to be headman. Marc, however, had served two full terms before becoming a councilor. He’d spent the last decade in Dihrah.

Something about the way Reid paced told Vaasa it wasn’t just Marc’s vote that mattered.

Perhaps it was his approval.

Immediately, Vaasa stood. Her mind raced at the discomfort in her stomach, but she pressed down upon the magic and squared her shoulders. This was what their deal had been built upon, and she’d be damned if she let what happened today interfere. A thousand questions flew through her mind, but Vaasa started with, “What does the visit entail? How much time do we need to account for?”

If she couldn’t master the despair and anger, at least she could master this.

Reid kept pacing near the door. “The formal thing to do would be to host a dinner in Marc’s honor at the High Temple, but he gave me no fucking notice , and there’s no way I can pull something like that together in the matter of an hour.”

Vaasa took a small breath. Considered. “Why the High Temple?”

“Historically, it is where the foreman has lived. I declined the housing.”

Apparently, this villa meant something to everyone. “So that’s why you have very few staff, only members of the corps, here in the villa?”

“Correct. The usual staff still lives and works at the High Temple, and it’s reserved for special occasions or city-sanctioned events. Events like this one would have been, had he given me ample notice. Three councilors, Vaasa. Three .”

Vaasa fought the small grin threatening to grow. No, she’d never seen him frazzled before, and she rather liked it. “You are the youngest foreman ever elected to Mireh. Surely a little political roughhousing is nothing new to you.”

“That isn’t what Marc cares for,” he said, still pacing as he dragged his hand through his hair. “He was elected on authenticity. He will smell it out if there is any lying, any schmoozing—”

“Reid.”

He stopped pacing and stared at her. Tendrils of his dark hair lifted with the breeze and in that moment, she saw through any facade of amusement he’d once worn.

Reid respected this man, and that made it all the worse.

“What would you like me to wear?”

Reid parted his lips, then ran his tongue over his teeth. “I… You aren’t going to argue with me?”

Unfortunately, she couldn’t blame him for that assumption. “Of course not, this is our deal.” Though she did question the irony of his authenticity remark, given the nature of their relationship. She walked into his room and headed to the bathing chamber. There, she brushed her fingers through her short black hair and applied a few cosmetics, trying to brighten her tired eyes and bring color to her cheeks and lips. As she did so, she walked herself through her thoughts—she could balance this. She could push the magic down.

Reid leaned against the curtained doorframe, watching closely.

By the cautious furrow of his brow, she assumed he knew something about what she’d learned this afternoon.

Vaasa asked, “Normally, would the High Temple host a celebration similar to that of our wedding night? Large dinner, important merchants and members of your corps invited?”

He nodded, a small, disbelieving grin coming to his face. “Yes, but with fewer knives under pillows and wives who jump off the roof.”

Vaasa snorted at his brazen humor, side-eying him as she finished applying the color to her lips. The wheels in her head kept turning. “The staff would have needed much longer to put something like that together. If we do, it will seem disorganized. Half-assed.”

“I suspect that was his purpose, yes.”

“So he’s a difficult man?”

“Extraordinarily. His wife is the only friendly thing about him, though she’s friendly enough for them both. He’s a damned economic genius, though.”

Vaasa nodded, leaning up against the counter. “Marc used to be foreman of Mireh. He grew up here, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So he knows what would be expected of a foreman when their councilor shows up? That he should have given you proper notice?”

Fists clenching, Reid muttered, “Like I said, he’s a difficult man.”

This didn’t seem like an intentional undermine. A surprise, sure, but not purposeful harm. If Marc had been born and raised in Mireh, had risen to power here and spent the past ten years of his life living in Dihrah, perhaps he had a reason for showing up unannounced. “Have you considered he has no interest in a formal party?”

Reid’s brows slammed together. “No, I hadn’t considered that. This feels like a test.”

“Self-important men give plenty of notice. They want a party in their name, and they want it to be big. The sort of thing you would stress over for days, because if they really didn’t like you, that is when they would disapprove. When you had worked hard, and they could make a wreckage of your effort. That isn’t what’s happening here.”

“What are you getting at?”

“ Authenticity . What if you didn’t host anything formal at the High Temple at all?”

Running his hand along his jaw, he said, “I’m listening.”

“What if we took them all to see Mireh, to truly see the city Marc grew up in, and see how much it has thrived? Have dinner at Neil’s restaurant on the Settara, where we can handle most of the conversation. Then we can dance in the Lower Garden, where it’s too loud for either of us to say the wrong thing. With less pomp, you will seem more secure, and perhaps they will enjoy a return to their youth.”

Reid’s lips parted as he gaped at her. “That could work.”

“I know.” Vaasa lifted herself from the counter and breezed through the curtains back into the main room, the idea playing out in her head. She stopped when she noticed the clothing already laid out on the bed. She’d missed that on the way in.

Reid’s formal attire with its sweeping purple and black fabric, which she’d seen back in Dihrah, came as no surprise. But the matching outfit sitting to the right was for her, and she tilted her head.

“What?” Reid asked.

“I don’t know how to put it on.”

Fighting a grin, he gestured toward the changing screen and said, “I’ll guide you through it.”

She almost protested, but his pacing had stopped, and he was coming back to himself. His humor. He’d need that to survive the evening, and she’d need to feed it to survive herself. With a sigh, she glided past the changing screen and held out one hand. “What’s first?”

He started by tossing her a pair of skintight black pants much like what his corps wore during training. Then she layered on a black bustier that wrapped up to her neck, much like the shirt she’d worn her first night here. The hem fell just below her breasts. She couldn’t lace up the back by herself. Turning and stepping out from the screen, she used one hand to hold up her hair and the other to raise the fabric, eyes meeting his.

Apparently, Reid had done this before, because he had the damn thing laced in under a minute.

Next was a sheer, glimmering purple piece of fabric she didn’t know what the hell to do with.

“Come here,” he insisted when she stepped out from the screen with a dumbfounded look on her face. He took the fabric from her hands and stepped far too close, wrapping it around her waist so the panel fell over one hip. Salt and amber filled her air, and she turned her face away, so he wasn’t overwhelming. So she could think. With nimble fingers, he tied it off, chuckling as she looked down at the peculiar knot he tied.

“These boots,” he said, holding out sturdy leather things that would go up over her knees.

Eyes taking in the thick material, she felt sweat bead on her legs already. “It’s almost summer. In Mireh.”

“I thought you weren’t going to argue with me.”

Begrudgingly, she grabbed the boots from his hands and sat on the bed to lace them up. As she did, he retreated into the bathing chamber to put on his own garb. Once he came out, she stood, faced him, and lifted her arms. “Good enough?”

Crossing the room, he plucked a set of gold threaded chains from a drawer and draped them over her head, attaching them nimbly just below her breasts and once again behind her back. Still too close, his arms were all the way around her until he finally backed up.

That dripping amusement—the in-control look she hated—made her want to take all of it off and shove both him and the councilors into the Settara for good measure. “Turn,” he instructed, inspecting her thoroughly.

She raised a brow.

He wiggled a finger in a circular motion. Not even stress could crack this part of Reid’s personality.

Muttering a curse, she did one single turn before placing her hand on her hip and locking eyes with him.

He smiled. “I have it on good authority that I fell ass-backward into the most striking consort in all of Icruria.”

“Who’s the good authority?” she asked.

“Me.”

“Not good enough,” she said, though a held-back laugh came out as a smile, and she took the compliment as an opportunity for pleasantness between them. “Though I don’t believe you fell ass-backward into it. From what I remember, it was quite intentional.”

She started out the door.

“Vaasalisa,” he called. When she met his eyes, he took a breath and seemed to plead with her. “This is important. I don’t know why, but I feel there’s a purpose behind his visit. To show up unannounced is an intention in itself. If I don’t get his vote, I don’t see how I could get any others.”

The undertone of his words settled between them, and a small part of her retreated. “Do you believe I would do something to harm your chances?”

“No,” he asserted suddenly, stepping closer with worry carved into his expression and his drapes a bit askew. “My mother spoke with me about… today. And—wait, please don’t be upset.”

Swiftly, she corrected the scowl on her face she hadn’t realized she’d let through.

“My point is that I didn’t realize the connection you had to this city or to this home.” Awkwardly, he shifted his weight. “She’s worried about you. Are you all right?”

The force in her rumbled, but she swallowed and pushed the intrusive thoughts down again.

“Don’t use my full name,” she said as she reached out and adjusted his fabrics, focusing on the things she knew for certain, just as Melisina had told her to do the first time they met. “It makes us sound more familiar. At dinner, do not cede the head of the table, but do wait for Marc to begin eating first. Be sure I am seated at your left. After the Lower Garden, place him and his wife in the room normally reserved for the foreman, about an hour before it would be generally expected, and have no one disturb them. The other councilors should be honored, but peripheral.”

He paused, eyes assessing her close work at his chest, and then asked, “Why?”

Vaasa stood up straight, letting her hands fall to her sides. “Because you will make Marc feel honored without making him feel powerful. Because you eat with your right hand, and I cannot tap your wrist below the table to tell you to be quiet if it’s holding a fork. And you will end the evening early because it gives them all an hour they didn’t expect, and a powerful man who has drunk wine all night and watched strangers dance with his wife will want her in his bed. And men who get properly laid are much more agreeable.”

Reid’s lips parted again as he gazed at her, and a small bit of pride bloomed in her at finally rendering him speechless.

“Don’t talk to me about what happened today, and we’ll be fine,” she asserted, lifting her chin as she stepped away without bothering to wait for his reaction. This wasn’t negotiable.

“Vaasa,” he said, utilizing that little nickname like somehow it had always belonged to him. “Thank you.”

Was this what the two of them were like when they worked together? “You’re welcome.”

She watched in awe as Reid took a deep breath, centering himself in the way Vaasa often saw Melisina do. And then his face returned to that calm, natural smirk. Without another word, he swaggered to the door like a headman in his own right, and Vaasa followed at his side down the breezeway.