Her legs are tangled in mine, her head pressed against my beating heart.

I’ve lost track of the time, content to hold her until my entire body goes numb. We’ve fallen into a silence that sounds like contentment, peace of mind.

I don’t dare move, too afraid to ruin the moment when she’s likely frightened of having it. It’s clear that she doesn’t know what to do with me. Doesn’t know what to do with me because of what I’m doing to her.

We are a day away from Ilya now. A day away from handing her over to Kitt—the king—to do with her what he will. And I don’t exactly know what Kitt is capable of anymore. I don’t even know how he will react when I show him the journal, the documentation from a Healer the king couldn’t buy.

He likely won’t believe it. Hell, I’m not quite sure what to believe either.

I’ve lived my entire life believing that the Ordinaries are diseased and dooming us all. But this lie falls in line with father’s character, with his hunger for power and control. Not to mention how many Ordinaries were living among us for decades with no noticeable effects on our abilities.

It seems like such an obvious lie when you haven’t been living it your entire life.

She shifts against me, pulling her legs to her chest. A flash of red catches my eye, and I reach out to grab her leg. She’s about to protest when I lift her calf toward me to see torn pants and the arrow slice beneath.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” I say calmly.

Her voice is as stiff as her body has become. “Because it’s just a scratch.”

“It’s bleeding.”

“No.” She sighs. “It bled. And I was doing a fine job at ignoring it until you brought it up.”

She shifts so I can see her face grow paler in the dim light as she stares at the dried blood. I grab the mutilated skirt and tear another strip of fabric from it. Then I carefully lift her leg over mine before rolling up what fabric remains of her pants.

I feel her eyes roaming my face as I wrap the strip of skirt around the wound, winding it tight before tying it off. “There,” I say simply. “Now you don’t have to look at it.”

She manages a small smile. “Thank you.”

My lips twitch. “That’s the fifth time you’ve thanked me now. Seems to be getting less painful to say.”

“What,” she scoffs, “you’re keeping track now?”

“I wouldn’t if it wasn’t such a rarity.”

She shakes her head, hiding a smile as she looks up at me. Short hair suits her. Though I’m quite sure there is little that doesn’t. But I like her like this—hair messy and lips quick to smile at me.

Her leg is still draped across mine, forcing her to sit sideways. I study her for a long moment before saying, “It was Adena, wasn’t it?”

Everything about her seems to shrink at the mention of her friend. “What about Adena?”

“The blood,” I say softly. “You never had a problem with it before…”

“Before she died,” she says bluntly. “Something about being covered in the blood of those you love—more than once—makes you unable to bear the sight, the feel, the smell of it. I guess… I guess Adena’s blood was my last straw.”

I nod, understanding in my own twisted way. My eyes travel over her, taking in the strength she fails to see. Her own piercing gaze is sweeping across my face, though I doubt she sees strength. Perhaps sin. Allegiance at best.

“We should get going, yes?” Her voice is deceptively cheery. “We mustn’t keep the king waiting longer than need be.”

I know that tone. She uses it every time there is talk of taking her back to Ilya.

Which is my duty. Taking her back to Ilya is my duty.

She untangles herself from my lap to stuff everything into her pack. The chain clanks when she stands to her feet, the sound a constant reminder of what it is I’m doing with her.

I follow, carefully pulling the bow across my uninjured shoulder. Glancing over, I find her gaze fixed on the ground, eyes wide with emotion. I follow her line of sight to see the dagger lying beside what was her long silver braid.

It feels as though she left a version of herself on the floor of this cave, another ghost to roam the Sanctuary of Souls. I bend to pick up her dagger, feeling the silver swirls press against my palm. How odd it is to hold a weapon with so much history in my hand.

“I won’t ever get it back, will I?” she asks dully.

I begin heading for the yawning mouth of the cave. “One day,” I promise.

“Bury it with me, will you?”

Her words make me stiffen, and it takes every ounce of strength to ignore them. When we step outside, it’s into late-afternoon sun. The road is rocky enough to jostle my shoulder and stretch the already throbbing wound there, making me dread each step. We walk in comfortable silence for a long while before she breaks with a casual, “You’re hurting.”

“Oh, am I, Little Psychic?”

She looks unamused until she says, “Let’s just say I’ve gotten rather good at reading your body language.”

I chuckle at my own words spit back at me. “That is how you did your little Psychic trick, isn’t it? You read people.”

She nods. “That’s the gist. It sounds a lot easier than it is, if I’m being honest. It takes years to hardwire your brain to string details together in a matter of seconds.”

“I believe it,” I sigh. “You were—still are, I suppose—very convincing.”

I feel her gaze on my face. “So, you never… questioned my ability?”

I laugh lightly. “Of course, I did. That’s kind of my job.” Shaking my head, I glance up at the blue sky above. “But you were distracting. It’s as though the moment I considered your ability, you’d do something to turn my thoughts in the other direction. And I am still discovering new powers, especially when it comes to the Mundanes. So, a Psychic didn’t seem too far-fetched.”

Her smile is smug. “I am very good at what I do.”

“Don’t go getting cocky, darling.”

She turns to look fully at me, her expression blank. “You have a blister on the inside of your left foot.” Her eyes fall to the growing scruff on my jaw. “You don’t keep a beard because you hate the way it feels. And… you wore a ring back at the castle, but you took it off before you came to find me.”

I shake my head at the ground, trying my best to hide my astonishment. “You got me, Gray. That all sounds about right.” I flex my hand like I have been ever since leaving the castle. “It was the Enforcer’s ring I was wearing. Big, gaudy thing I’m not used to. The feel of it between my fingers bothered me. So I figured a mission was a good excuse to take it off.”

I glance over to find her staring at the ring she spins on her thumb. She scoffs at the sight of it. “My whole life I thought this ring represented the marriage of my parents, not strangers.”

“They were your parents,” I say sternly. “Blood doesn’t equal love. Jax is just as much my brother as Kitt is, despite us not sharing the same parents.”

She nods, understanding but not fully believing. “It makes sense. All of it.” She manages a weak laugh. “I’m the daughter of some Ordinaries who didn’t want to deal with me. That’s why I’m not a Mix. I guess… I guess I just never thought about it until now.”

“Why would you?” I say simply. “When a father loves you, you don’t feel the need to go looking for another one.”

She nods, falling silent. The sun hangs above us, hot against the back of my neck. I say nothing about my aching shoulder or the burning blister she’s already aware of that rubs against my boot.

We walk in an easy silence for a long stretch of the remaining road. The last of our stale bread is quickly devoured and washed down with warm water.

That’s when the ground begins to even out, tufts of grass appearing all around us. Shielding my eyes, I squint against the falling sun, spotting the flood of green we are heading for.

“We’re almost to the field,” I say, shattering the silence. I can already see the castle’s towers looming over the horizon.

“Great. Last stop before Ilya.”

There’s that tone again.

I clear my throat. “Have you ever been to the field?”

“Considering that it’s near the castle—and I hadn’t been anywhere close to there until the Trials—no, I’ve never seen the field.”

“Good.” I throw her a smile. “I’ll be the first to see your reaction.”

Her mouth is hanging open, just as I suspected.

“What… what is that?” she gawks, feet falling faster against the dirt.

“That would be the field.”

A hand smacks me in the stomach. “I know that, smart-ass.” She smiles sweetly as though she hadn’t just knocked the air from my lungs. “I’m talking about the flowers.”

I straighten, hand pressed against my stomach as I stare at the sea of bright red. Every petal bleeds into the other, creating a blanket of color to warm the grass beneath.

“Poppies,” I say, smiling when I see the look on her face.

“I’ve never seen such a bright flower,” she blinks. “They’re orange and red and everywhere.”

I can’t seem to tear my eyes from her. “So? What do you think?”

She glances back at me, her smile worrisome. “I think you’re slowing me down.”

With the words barely out of her mouth, she turns and bounds toward the field. I manage to start running before the chain has the chance to try to yank me off my feet. I watch her spread out her arms to embrace the wind as her boots find the edge of the field.

I haven’t seen her this carefree since the day I followed her out into the rain, plucking a forget-me-not to tuck behind her ear. Seeing her enjoy life makes surviving mine suddenly worth it.

“At least try to keep up!” she calls, poppies crowding her legs with each step. “I think you’re out of shape, Azer!”

“Is that so?” I laugh, gaining on her.

She realizes too late what is happening.

A squeal slips from her lips when I cut in front of her, bending to catch her legs and throw the rest of her body over my uninjured shoulder. I bite my tongue at the sting that still shoots down my body, but the sound of her laugh is healing, capable of a man forgetting his own name, let alone his pain.

“What are you doing?” she laughs against my back, arms flailing.

I spin us around. “Showing you just how out of shape I am.”

She giggles like a girl who hasn’t had to grieve her father and best friend. Like a girl who hasn’t struggled to survive, stolen when she was starving. Like a girl who isn’t chained to a man she’s meant to hate.

There is such beauty in resilience, in the ability to laugh despite it all.

“All right,” she pants, “you made your point. You can put me down now.”

“But I’m giving you the best view of the flowers,” I say with a smile she can’t see.

Her voice is slightly muffled. “No, you’re dragging my head through the flowers.”

I laugh, crouching as I wrap an arm around her back and flip her over my shoulder. Lowering her slowly to the ground, I lay her down so flowers circle her as she smiles up at me.

The setting sun drips golden rays across her face, blue eyes burning bright against the vibrant red of each poppy. It’s hard to believe that something so beautiful would willingly stare at the likes of me.

I feel undeserving of her gaze, of the way her eyes roam over my face. I shake my head, still staring down at her. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” she asks softly.

“Like I’m worthy of being seen.”

Her lashes flutter at my words. She swallows, lifting a hand to cup my face. My eyes drift closed at the feel of her palm against my skin, the privilege to be touched by her.

“Dance with me?” she whispers.

My heart skips a beat at the timid question.

I open my eyes to find hers fixed on my face, giving me that look I don’t deserve. “For however long you want, darling.”

I help her to her feet before guiding her arms around my neck. My hands find her hips, holding tight as I lift her feet atop mine. She gasps in surprise before a smile splits her face, fingers curling in my hair.

I sway with her body pressed against mine. My hands roam up her back, unused to the feel of it without her heavy curtain of hair. I tilt my head toward hers, taking in the mess of silver falling to her shoulders.

I tuck a wavy piece behind her ear, running my fingers down the short length of it. “You don’t regret it?”

She shakes her head, her smile sad. “No.”

“Good,” I murmur. “Because I’ve always had a thing for short hair.”

“Oh, really?” She laughs as I sway us in a circle.

“It’s true. Among other things, of course.” I shrug a shoulder. “Short hair. Ocean-blue eyes. Twenty-eight freckles. And”—I pause, examining her with a tilt of my head—“how tall are you?”

She blinks in confusion. “Umm, about five and a half feet?”

“Five and a half feet,” I continue evenly. “The terrifying ability to kick a man’s ass. Stunning smile. Ridiculously stubborn. Hair like molten silver. Quick to threaten me with a dagger.” I smile down at her. “Should I go on?”

“What’s next? A ballad in my name?” Her voice holds a challenge, but her face wears a smile.

I pull her closer, my hand fitted into the curve of her waist. “Are poets not just fools with fancy words?” I duck my face until our foreheads meet. “I think I qualify, darling.”

She laughs softly, looking down at the flowers crowding around our legs. We’re swaying in the sunset, her boots atop mine with a field of flowers to witness.

I watch her gaze climb up and across the sea of petals reaching toward the sky. I don’t need to turn my head to know what she’s looking at. “Last night,” she says quietly.

“Last night,” I echo.

She nods, winding her arms tighter around my neck. “Then we might as well enjoy this while it lasts.”

We sway in silence until she whispers, “Pretend, right?”

I swallow, hating the sound of the lie that slides off my tongue. “Pretend.”