Chapter 56

Iswim through the inky layers of a suffocating bog, clawing at something … nothing. Saliva pools beneath my tongue, and I groan, swallowing the urge to vomit as a deep thud attacks my temples. Rubbing my eyes, I draw my lungs full of the thick musk that drops a boulder of recognition on my chest.

The air in this room ... it’s all him.

“Oh, no …”

I drag my hands down my face and look around, wincing as the cloying weight of my poor decisions makes my stomach flip.

Definitely not my room.

My gaze slides around the space, over the rough stone walls to the flimsy curtain covering a low window. The room feels small, much of it taken up by the large bed I’m lying in. There’s a desk to my right littered with stacks of paper, chunks of blue rocks, sharpened sticks of charcoal. A sketched map covers the wall behind the desk, bits of parchment piecing it together.

I lean forward, moaning at the pounding in my head as I peer at the map, trying to make it out. Quickly realizing it’s a map of the city, islands mottling the sea of otherwise empty space beyond Parith, all connected by the intertwining vines of what appears to be the tunnel system Rhordyn was telling me about.

The same tunnel system I’m currently trying to hack a hole into beneath the palace.

Big areas are missing, marked by blank sheets of paper or large, black crosses in areas that perhaps mean the tunnels have been barred off.

I look at the spare sheets of parchment, the sharpened sticks of coal …

I need to jot this down for myself.

Leaping up, I’m struck with a brain-bruising thud that resonates from the tip of my spine. Teeth clenching, I waver, eyes watering as I groan through chalky lips, slamming my hand against the headboard for support.

I’ll never drink mulled wine again. I feel like shit scraped off the pavement, then stomped down a drain.

My desperate gaze falls on a mug set atop the wooden stool used as a bedside table, and I scramble for it, drawing a deep gulp of the contents. My entire body shudders at the taste—like a wash of chilled evening rain spiced with flower petals and a dash of sunshine.

I pull the mug from my lips and look at the clear liquid swirling inside.

“Wow … That’s the most delicious water I’ve ever tasted.”

Cradling the cup in my trembling hands, I sip at it, savoring each drop that flows across my tongue and drains down into me, soothing my belly from the inside. Easing the tender drum in my head. I set the empty mug on the stool, yearning for more.

The creaking strain of rusted hinges has me spinning, attention whipping to the shadowed figure filling the doorframe. My heart labors as I take him in—cloaked, hooded, yet I can still feel the chilled path of his focus carving across my face, tracing the slope of my lips … my neck …

My skin prickles, nipples pinch. This room feels so much smaller now that I’m dwarfed by his hulking presence. Now that he’s taking up the main exit with his broad shoulders.

Tipping his hood, I’m exposed to the full brunt of his savage beauty. To his eyes—a catastrophic mix of hunger and hell.

Scruff covers the bottom half of his face, and the vaguest memory of my hand slapping against it while I contemplated the feel of it between my thighs flashes on the backs of my eyes.

A deep, unsatiated throb has me swallowing thickly.

Kicking forward another step, he closes the door, the clunk of the lock sliding into place reverberating through my skin, flesh, and bones. He sets an orange on his desk and unbuckles his cloak, watching me as he drapes it across the back of the low chair that swivels and rocks with the weight of it.

My gaze travels down, up again, attention snagging on his loose pants hung low on his hips and his shirt clinging to every brutish pane of his body like a second skin.

Another deep throb almost buckles my knees …

“This is your room?” I rasp, like I didn’t already know—desperate to fill the silence.Anything to distract myself from the vision before me. From his piercing stare, as though there’s nothing in this world aside from the two of us and this room.

This bed.

This empty, yearning space between us.

“Yes, Milaje.”

I nod, allowing myself a moment more to enjoy this delicious peace before I let reality sink in and shred it apart. He must feel the moment I recompose those shields because his own stare hardens, arms crossing over his bulky chest as he widens his stance, quirking his brow as if to say there it is.

I lift my chin and smooth my crumpled shirt in an attempt at composure … the hazy memory of wandering the streets, drunk and scrappy and seconds away from spewing all over the cobbled ground a mortifying slap.

But here we are.

“What’s the time?” I ask.

“Late in the day.”

My heart drops.

Shit.

“Why didn’t you take me back to the palace?”

His stare savagely maims me. “You expected me to scale that palace wall with you passed out in my arms, snoring and smelling like a brewery?”

I internally cringe.

Very, very poor life decision.

“You could’ve just done the normal thing and dropped me at the gate. Asked someone to carry me back to my room.”

His eyes flash, as though lit with a silver spark.

Silence. The soul-destroying sort that makes me want tosquirm.

“Just so we’re clear, Milaje, I will never ask someone else to carry you.”

My hands bunch into fists, and I look away, stabbing my stare at the closed curtain and the dull haze of light filtering through.

“And where did you sleep?” I bite out, looking at him again, trying to ignore the burning blush that cups my cheeks.

“There,” he says, jerking his chin at the bed to where the sheets are still stamped with the rumpled evidence of my body’s departure.

“But I woke up there ...”

“Yes,” he rumbles, kicking off his boots, setting himself in the captain’s chair—elbows on his knees after he plucks up the round of fruit and digs his nails into the rind. “You rolled over to my side the moment I got up.”

That heat flares, boiling my cheeks, an embarrassed flash of anger tightening my knuckles until they’re aching from the strain.

Comatose Orlaith is fucking senseless.

“I told you not to—”

“Breathe in your direction,” he mumbles, carving off a large shard of peel, spritzing the air with its zesty freshness. “I know. I had my face pointed the other way the entire night. Promise.”

He segments the fruit, then puts it on a dented tin plate before he stands, dissolving the space between us with a few powerful strides.

I’m forced to tip my head to hold his stare.

“Eat,” he rumbles, shoving the plate in my face. “It will alleviate your migraine.”

“How do you know I’ve got a migraine?”

He gives me a deadpan look. “Because even if I didn’t watch you chug two jugs of mulled wine on a no-doubt empty stomach, I’ve been through this with Baze. I know the signs.”

“Ever thought of finding a hobby?” I grit out through clenched teeth.

“I have one. And right now she’s a bratty little pain in my ass who won’t take her medicine.” He drops the plate on the bed beside me, making the segments jump as he grabs my empty cup and spins.

I’m tempted to pick up a piece and lob it at the back of his head.

Tamping my violent, knee-jerk urge, I watch him disappear through a side door that likely leads to a washroom, gauging by the sound of gushing water that swiftly follows.

I stare at the fruit with narrowed eyes, hating the way my stomach growls like some ravenous, teeth-gnashing beast.

It probably tastes like fucking sunshine.

My mouth tingles in anticipation, and I cave, sitting as I pluck up a segment—letting it glaze across my lips. I poke my tongue out the slightest amount, intending on a sample, except an explosion of zesty sweetness sends my taste buds into a rioting spasm.

A little moan slips out when I bite into the flesh, relishing the bursts of sweetness as I chew, sighing between mouthfuls, the sticky juice dripping off my fingers and my chin.

Rhordyn returns with a cloth in one hand and my freshly filled mug in the other, just as I’m polishing off the final piece. He sits both on the side table and makes for the desk, and my stare tracks him every step of the way while I use the damp cloth to wipe my hands and chin.

“So it’s not okay for Cainon to serve me up, but it’s okay for you?”

“Cainon meant it as an insult,” he mutters, dropping back into the chair with a weighty thud. Swiping a piece of charcoal, he begins scratching against some parchment. “My intentions are the opposite. Now, try and get a few more hours of sleep.”

My hands still. “You’re kidding.”

He looks at me from beneath the shelf of his lowered brows. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

My mouth opens, closes, opens again, words finally bursting forth. “My promised is probably searching for me …”

“Exactly.” He plucks the piece of parchment and blows, studying it from a sideways angle before setting it back on the table. “He won’t notice me stealing one of his ships to scout the surrounding islands.”

I laugh, then pause, momentarily paralyzed by my own stupidity.

“You slimy son of a bitch.” Pelting my washcloth in his direction, I shove to a stand, my wild, golden locks heavy around my shoulders like a layer of armor. “You used me.”

He leans back in his chair, planting his chin on his fist and looking at me with a cutthroat intensity. “Ocruth forces are slowly sifting into the city, ready to sail the promised ships. I’m on the back foot until I locate them.”

I gobble the information like a spiked sweet, wondering why he’d willingly hand me such a valuable secret. Cainon would have a field day with that piece of knowledge. Would see it as evidence that Rhordyn’s trying to infiltrate his territory and steal it for himself.

Precisely why he cannot find out.

I snatch another swift look at the map behind him, branding it to the backs of my eyes. “Well, you still threw me under the carriage,” I say, rooting through the blue sheets in search of my hat and hairpin.

“You’re the one who fell into my arms. Literally.”

My stare whips at him, then to my bag lumped in the corner on the ground at his back. “Tip for next time,” I snip, charging forth and snatching it up, rooting around for my hat. Pegged with disappointment when I realize it’s not there—pocketing my pin. “Let me fall, then leave me on the fucking pavement. I don’t need your help.” I spin on my heel, then stalk toward the exit, shoving the lock aside.

Swinging the door wide, I barrel along the sparsely lit hall, then down a tight flight of creaky wooden stairs. It’s only once I near the bottom that the bustle of gruff chatter hits me. Then the rich smell of hearty, well-seasoned stew and baked bread—as though my senses needed time to recalibrate after drowning in the wash of Rhordyn’s dense, primal scent.

I peek around the corner to see a host of men gathered around tall tables dotted throughout the space, digging bread into deep bowls and sipping ale from frothy mugs. There’s a bar that lines one side of the room, a stern-looking barrel of a man standing behind it, polishing a glass.

My heart falls as I look to the exit—all the way on the other side of the room.

Crap.

I charge back up the stairs, storm into Rhordyn’s room, and close the door behind me—spine planted against the cold, wooden planes.

“Back so soon?” he drawls.

“I can’t be seen exiting here. Especially not looking like this. Or”—I pull my collar to my nose and draw a whiff, but my scent is lost beneath the thick, heady layers of him—”smelling like this.”

“Then climb out the window, Milaje.”

My gaze flicks to him bent over his drawing, his hand moving in short, artistic sweeps. “You’re kidding.”

He rocks back in his chair, peeling the curtain and glancing out the window.

He grunts. “Looks fine to me. I’ve seen you scale worse—in worse conditions.”

I charge over, snatching the curtain and pulling it wide, poking my head out the half-open window and dousing myself in fierce, shafting rays of afternoon sun. Sweat prickles my brow from the wash of humidity, made worse when I peer down and realize the walkway three stories below appears to be a popular thoroughfare.

A man walking his dog, women with baskets packed with fresh produce milling around, children zig-zagging through the crowd, laughing. A cluster of guards charge past, faces pinched and spears caught in their white-knuckled fists as they scour the face of every person they cross paths with.

“Shit,” I mutter, ducking inside so fast I almost vomit. I flick the curtain closed, put my back to the window, and strum my fingers against the sill, watching Rhordyn work—every line, every shaded smudge drawn with such conviction, I doubt he ever makes a mistake.

I look at the map. Back to Rhordyn. “So … what are you doing?”

Can I interest you in making a miniature version for me to take back to the palace for when I break through the wall?

“Calah used to store his fleet at one of the islands. I’ve only ever traveled there using the underground tunnel system I was telling you about,” he says, not looking up. “I have no idea how to get there otherwise.”

“Who’s Calah?”

“Cainon’s father.” He draws another stroke, blowing off the excess.

“Why don’t you just send a sprite?”

“I’ve sent two,” he mumbles. “Neither of them have returned. Seems cruel to send a third.” Another long line, then, “I just need to discern a direction so I’m not forced to waste precious days sailing waters I’m unfamiliar with.”

A nervous seed roots in my chest, delving between the fractures of my heart …

He’s talking like he’s planning to steal them before the ceremony has even had a chance to take place.But if he swipes them from under Cainon’s nose, war will spark.

With Bahari.

If the ships are secured by me … Rhordyn will be utterly blameless, and I don’t care about the kickback I’ll receive.

Not anymore.

“Just don’t do anything rash. Cainon and I will be coupled by the full moon,” I say, trying to hide the trepidation in my voice—stare still traveling the lines of the map, etching them deeper into my mind. “Then I’ll get you all the ships you need. Free of charge.”

Free of war.

It takes me a second to realize it’s silent.

Toosilent.

He turns, and I drop my stare, landing in the pits of two black eyes.

“Free of charge?”

There’s menace in his tone, and I swallow, edging away from the windowsill, taking sharp steps backward as he rises from his seat—a tower of seething brawn.

“Free … of charge?” He growls, louder now, and there’s a shake to the words, like they’re battling their confines.

The back of my knees collide with the bed, and I tip, landing with an oomph upon the mattress as he stalks across the room. He looms over me, and I swear he’s bigger than normal, his muscles so pumped full of rage that I can feel it ricocheting against my skin.

He steps between my opened thighs, pins his hands either side of my head, and lowers himself slower than a setting moon—teeth bared, breath a cold assault against my fervid skin.

I hate that his mere closeness makes me throb again. That I picture him tearing at my buttons, ripping my pants down, widening my thighs. Picture him settling between them and shoving deep—stretching me.

Claiming me.

Destroying me from the inside.

My spine curls, breaths sharpen.

His lips skim the shell of my ear, casting a shiver down the side of my neck that pinches my nipples into painful peaks. “You think so little of yourself …”

I gasp as the words carve beneath my skin, dragging their delicate undertow across my blackened heart, making it ache from the assault.

Stop digging,I want to scream.

“What I think of myself is none of your business.”

“Wrong,” he growls—not giving my words time to breathe before he smothers them in his own. “Your pain calls to me. You can tuck it down deep and cover it up all you want, but I can still see it clear as day.”

“You can’t see shit.”

He digs his face into the crook of my neck, inhaling, nuzzling my head to the side and making my skin tighten with delicious anticipation. He could pop it in a heartbeat. Burst my flesh and bleed my carotid.

What would I do if he did? Fight him?

Maybe.

Or maybe I’d wrap my arms around his neck and pull—keeping him locked on until he’d drained every drop.

“I can see your self-hatred,” he whispers, the word a violent patter against my ear. Every bone in my body locks, the backs of my eyes stinging so much I’m afraid to blink for fear of what it will send dashing down my cheeks. “You didn’t just roll into my spot when I left the bed, Orlaith.” His crumbled words gallop across my skin. “You clung to me all night like I was the only thing tethering you to the world.”

“Stop—”

“Never,” he snarls, stamping more crushing pressure along my body. Letting me eat up his weight and bathing me in his masculine scent. “I’ll never stop hunting this pulse.” He presses a kiss against my neck that burns like an icy brand.

He wouldn’t be saying that if he knew what I was capable of.

What I’ve done.

I want to scrape the admittance into his skin with the blunt of my nails.

He rolls his hips, drawing a sharp gasp from my lips when his solid shaft grinds against the softest part of me, assuaging that restless ache.

“Show me ...”

His words come to me through the fog of rapture as I raise my hips to meet another roll of his, making his cock—barely sheathed by his soft pants—charge at my opening with every breaching intention.

I moan, absorbing the drum of delicious heat, widening my legs so his next thrust assaults every flushed and swollen part of my aching core. My hands dig down the carved brawn of his back, beneath the band of his pants, where they settle on his flexing ass as he stabs his hips forward again.

And again.

That throb incinerates me from the inside out, and I whimper, wanting to delve my hand between us and rip my pants right off.

“Milaje, I said show me—”

I tip my head to give him full access to my throat, my body devouring another blunt thrust.

“Sh-show you what?”

I want him to fuck me. To use me and wreck me.

I want to do the same to him.

He cups the side of my face, hips stilling as he catches my stare.

Holds it hostage.

“Your damage.”

I still. Even my heart gutters to a halt.

He doesn’t want my body. He wants my fucking soul.

No.

I shove his chest. “Get off me.”

He does—instantly—pulling back so fast I gasp from the shock of his sudden absence. Then he’s charging into the washroom like an angry shadow, leaving me in the wake of his emotional warfare.

The sound of falling water reaches me through the open door, followed by a thick fog of steam that’s all him. A narcotic dose of primal desire that stirs me up in filthy ways I should be ashamed of. I squeeze my eyes shut, tunneling down on that well of self-hatred, pinching the back of my arm so hard my eyes blaze with a fresh promise of tears.

No. He does not get to pick me apart and analyze my insides. To look at me like he wants to thread me back together.

He does not get to be my fucking hero.

Pushing off the bed, I unbutton my shirt, then yank it off, unbinding my achy breasts that fall heavy and free. I remove my pants and underwear, digging through my bag for my blade and gripping it tight. My hair is a weight against my bare back, brushing the curve of my ass as I sway toward that doorway, swallowing the remaining scraps of trepidation and dropping myself into that cold, dead place that feels nothing.

The room is larger than I thought it would be, the chiseled rock dominated by a wall of falling water spilling from a slit in the top crease between roof and wall. But it all pales in significance to him.

Naked. Glorious. Brutally statuesque.

A beast in his prime.

His strong hands are planted against the wall, accentuating those broad, powerful shoulders, head dropped as he lets the water batter the back of it. My gaze travels from his spread fingers, over the trail of veins bulging in his forearms, down the line of his spine, devouring his ass and muscled thighs. The sight blazes my insides, kicking my blood into a rushing torrent, and that deep, empty throb takes on a violent life of its own.

He’s all dark, masculine beauty. My own damnation carved into a roughly hewn sculpture of agonizing temptation.

There’s not a single part of me that doesn’t appreciate the sight.

Not a single part of me that doesn’t want to destroy him, anyway.

“You want to see my damage?” I purr, and his head lifts, twisting so he can see me over the swell of his right shoulder.

Through the rope of his sodden locks, that flash of startling silver hits me, blackening.

Widening.

His chilled stare carves down me in a way that almost flays my vicious intentions, so I don’t give him more than a second to take me in before I’m at his back with my blade notched between his shoulders. I grasp his thick, silken shaft in my other hand … the one cuffed in Cainon’s cupla.

He’s heavy.

Huge.

His chest inflates, and a dense growl rips up his throat while I wrestle my shock.

Having all this man in the palm of my hand, I’m struck with a wash of primal, erotic power that dissolves the trepadition of my inexperience …

Grip firm and movements smooth, I pump, exploring his length. He balks, muscles tensing, as though he’s battling instincts screaming at him to take control as I drag my fingers over the head of his cock, squeezing. It jerks in my grasp, swelling, becoming rock solid.

His right arm lashes back, and he takes a large, claiming grip of my ass cheek, exposing my core to the warm kiss of humidity. His head falls to rest on top of mine, and a deep, throaty rumble fills the room, punching into that ache between my legs and making my insides clamp down on nothing.

I arch my spine, giving him better access to my flushed and throbbing core as his curled fingers graze against me, zapping me with a strike of pleasure I want to drown in.

Teeth gritted, forehead pressed against his back, I work him faster, harder, my grip traversing over the velvet shaft of thickening veins and his hardening head.

I can feel his pleasure in the tense of his muscles. The jerk of his cock. The low, abrasive grunts every time my hand skirts over his most sensitive parts.

His grip becomes more desperate, dragging me so close my bare breasts ache from the crushing impact, my hand shaking with the effort to avoid impaling him through the back.

He spins.

I gasp.

Somehow managing to maintain my grip on him, I’m shoved through the pour of water and slammed against the wall so hard my breath knocks free. His hand comes up to grip my jaw, the other pinning my weapon-wielding hand to the stone beside my head.

The sharp, intoxicating scent of his blood fills the room,curling up into me on tendrils of steam.

“I cut you—”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he growls, bucking his hips against me, warm water splashing over us as he works his cock through my clenched grip.

I look down, watching the thick, pink head—glistening, swollen, and angry-looking—pushing up through the curled grip of my fingers and presenting itself between my breasts.

A low, throaty moan spikes another wave of heat between my legs, echoing in the hollow behind the fall of water.

It takes me a moment to realize the sound came from me.

His muscles lock, hips jerking, jerking … head digging into my neck. I feel his teeth clamp against the thumping, yearning, thin layer of skin—

His hand spears down, fingers brushing up the inside of my thigh, reaching so close to that hot, swollen nub that’s aching for friction. I tilt my hips away from his touch, knowing that the slightest brush will send me tumbling into him in more ways than one—working my hand faster, tighter …

A dense, primal sound rattles in his chest, threatening to rip it to shreds from the inside out, his entire body locking around me like a shield as warm, milky ropes spurt all over my heaving breasts and dribble over my fingers still clenched around his manhood.

Gasping for breath, I gulp down the potent scent of his pleasure as those teeth pull back, replaced with the cool press of his lips—so soft.

A toosoft strike to the soul.

His kisses sow a tender trail up the line of my throat to my ear, along my jaw, his grip loosening on my weapon-wielding hand as he rumbles—like a deep purr. Rough fingers graze my breasts, painting me in himself, smearing it across the firm peaks of my nipples, making them tingle with a delicious spike of rapture while I try to soothe my ragged breaths.

He’s trembling, water pouring down the savage planes of his beautiful body as I look up at him from below my lashes, delving into the swirling pools of his unguarded eyes. Impossible to appreciate when my reflection is all I can see.

That well of self-hatred bubbles.

His thumb skims my lower lip, water dripping from his hair and beard, stare dipping to my mouth. Curled over me like some great beast, he drops his head, chilled lips grazing mine—

I jerk from his grip and shove to the side, walking backward as he spins—heaving, his heavy cock impossibly hard between his thighs and pointing straight at me.

I have a moment to take him in; stripped of his walls, muscles bulging as that knot of tension that’s always held us together is stretched to its limits. Or perhaps it just makes it more difficult to untangle.

I lift my chin.

“Milaje—”

“Consider my debt repaid for the time you pity fucked me with your fingers. This won’t happen again.”

I snatch a towel off the rail and spin on my heel, breaking from his sawtooth stare and stalking from the room, wiping myself clean of the mess he made across my chest. It’s only once I’m free of the thick, intoxicating aroma of our actions does realization sink in.

I just taunted the beast.

Snagging my bag and clothes, I dig my feet into my underwear, then my pants. I don’t bother wrapping my breasts before swiftly pulling my shirt on and fumbling with the buttons.

Shouldering my bag, I flip my sodden hair out from under my shirt and storm toward the window, hand planted against the pane to shove it open when Rhordyn’s fingers wrap around the handle. He pulls it forward, slamming it closed.

The windowpane rattles in synchrony with my thundering heart.

“Let me out,” I snarl, refusing to turn. Knowing that if I do, part of me might shatter. “I need to get back to my promised.”

“You’re showing him more respect than he deserves,” he booms, his energy a violent static battering my back. “His love is driven by agenda and greed. He’s not good enough for you. Far from it.”

“You don’t get to tell me who I will and will not love,” I snap, and the air chills so fast my breath turns milky white.

He steps closer, his wet, naked body aligning with my back. Stilling my breath and my heart and grinding all my thoughts to a crashing halt. “No. And I won’t. But I will tell you this,” he growls, digging his face into my neck and almost buckling my knees. “I’m getting those ships before the full fucking moon, and then you can decide if you still want to be with that man.”

No.

I whip around, heart in my throat, head tipped as I look up at him poured over me like a shield. “You’re going to go to war with him? Over me?”

He doesn’t blink or flinch. “I’d strike the fucking world down for you.”

All breath escapes me.

“Rhordyn, no …”

“I told you I won’t let you fall, and I’ve drawn that line in the stone,” he growls, warfare waging across his savage expression.

My entire chest aches, as if he just busted his hand through it and drew that very line with one of my cracked ribs

“You’re going to leave Parith without the ships. You’re going to leave the sailors and your pretty drawing over there,” I say, stabbing my finger at his map with fierce determination, “and you’re going to go.”

He laughs, but it’s all teeth. “Not happening, Milaje. Not in a million years.”

Desperation reaches down my throat and grips my heart. Cracks it open. Fishes around until it pulls out a token of my own to offer him with bloodied hands.

I harden my stare, looking him dead in the eye. “You know what I’ve learned?”

He frowns.

“My … my kind,” I snarl, gesturing to the jewel hanging around my neck, “have been hunted. Slaughtered. Apparently, simply showing my unmasked face in public is practically a death sentence.” I shrug, holding his catatonic stare. “Guess my tutor missed that little part of my history lesson.”

There’s an agonizing pause, and his gaze nips at my necklace, like he’s already anticipating the blow I’m about to land. “If you don’t leave,” I say, voice dropped low as I thread my hand up to the heavy jewel and grip it tight. “I’ll walk down the busy esplanade and rip this off my neck.”

His eyes flare with a flash of realization, like he can see the truth in my own.

I’ve got nothing to lose except myself.

A deep, bone-chilling silence takes root between us, his eyes dipping so dark I picture something very different staring back at me …

Something ferocious and spilling bloodlust.

“Do you believe me?”

“Yes, Milaje. I do.”

I ignore the crack in his voice, lifting my chin, his black eyes boring into me. “Then step back.”

A vicious rumbling spawns in his chest, but he abides, hands falling at his sides. I turn, shove the window open, and climb through—catching sight of him as I spin.

His onyx eyes impale me.

Struggling to maintain my grip on the stone, I drop from his line of sight, but it doesn’t stem this sickening feeling deep inside my chest …

I may have choked a war with Bahari, but at what cost?