You might be angry when you realize I didn’t wake you to say goodbye. But it’s only because I no longer fully trust my ability to walk away.
—Recovered Correspondence of His Grace, Lieutenant Xaden Riorson, Sixteenth Duke of Tyrrendor, to Cadet Violet Sorrengail
Oh. Oh. I part my lips, and he consumes my world.
He kisses me hard and deep, takes my mouth like this might be the only time he can. It’s that note of desperation, the graze of his teeth along my lower lip that has my hands flying to his hair. I push my fingers through the dark strands and hold on for dear life, pouring everything I feel into the kiss.
Heat and need collide low in my stomach, coiling tighter with every stroke of his skilled tongue. He hasn’t kissed me like this since before the battle at Basgiath—not even in our bed, and gods, I’ve missed it. It’s as carnal as sex and as intimate as waking in his arms.
My heart pounds, and I part my knees. He fills the space and kisses me deeper, bringing our bodies flush but nowhere close enough to satisfy either of us. His fingers tunnel through the lower portion of my braid, and he tilts my head, finding that perfect angle that makes me whimper mindlessly.
“Violet,” he groans against my mouth, and I fucking liquefy.
I shrug out of my flight jacket and hear it hit the table, but losing the layer doesn’t relieve the insistent heat threatening to burn me alive. Only Xaden can do that. His hand flexes on my hip, then strokes over the curve of my waist as he sucks on my bottom lip, and I moan at the shiver of pure want that dances up my spine.
I reach for his uniform top and skim my fingers along it before yanking the soft linen undershirt free from his pants. My hands are met with warm, soft skin draped over ridges of hard muscle, and I trace the two lines along the edges of his stomach until they disappear into his leathers.
He drags a breath through his teeth, then thoroughly kisses every thought from my head, holding me in the acute state of madness only he can provoke, then driving me higher until we’re a tangled mess of tongues and questing hands.
His mouth skims my jaw, then the sensitive line of my throat, and I gasp when he targets the spot he knows will turn me molten, then lingers, ensuring my complete meltdown.
“You…” My head rolls back to give him better access, and he takes it. Fire races through my veins, and power quickly follows in a one-two punch that knocks my common sense clear off the Continent. “Xaden, I need you.”
Here. A table in the gathering hall. Against the wall in fucking commons. I don’t care where or who sees as long as I can have him right now. If he’s game, then I am, too. A low sound rumbles in his throat before he wrenches his mouth away.
“No, I need you.” He brings his face to mine, and too many emotions to name flicker in the depths of his eyes.
“You have me,” I whisper, lifting my hand to the side of his neck, just over his relic. His pulse thrums beneath my fingers, just as fast and hard as mine.
“There was an hour where I wasn’t sure I did.” His fingers slip to the nape of my neck, and then he pulls away, retreating two precious steps that feel like miles as cool air rushes in to take his place, chilling my heated cheeks. “Sgaeyl didn’t even tell me. Chradh told Garrick.” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t just angry, Violet. I was terrified.”
The tortured look on his face makes me swallow, and I lean forward to grasp the edge of the table. “It’s the same choice you would have made—the choice we did make, and I’m all right.”
“I know that!” His voice rises, and shadows don’t just jump; they flee.
Well, that’s different.
He rakes his hand down his face and breathes deeply. “I know that,” he repeats, softer this time. “But the thought of you being out there, beyond the wards, facing down a known attack of venin, triggered something in me I’ve never felt before. It was hotter than rage, and sharper than fear, and cut deeper than helplessness, all because I couldn’t get to you.”
My lips part, and an ache takes root in my chest. I hate that he’s going through this.
“I would have killed anything and anyone in that moment to reach you. No exceptions. I would have channeled every ounce of power beneath my feet without hesitation if it would have landed me at your side.”
“You’d never kill civilians,” I counter with a hundred percent certainty.
He takes another step backward. “If I’d been there, beyond the wards, I would have drained the very earth to its core to keep you safe.”
“Xaden…” I whisper, every other word failing me.
“I’m well aware that you can handle yourself.” He nods and retreats again. “And logically, I respect your choice. Hell, I’m proud of your decision to save Maren’s family. But something is broken between here”—he taps the side of his head—“and here”—he repeats the motion above his heart. “And I can’t control it. You are on orders to find Andarna’s kind, and I’m on orders to the front, and I can’t even trust myself enough to touch you.”
“You just did.” My fingers scrape the rough wood and I shift my weight as I fight the selfish need to close the distance between us, remembering the thumbprints on my headboard. He might feel like he’s spiraling, but he just displayed complete control.
“And that’s good enough for you?” His gaze heats as it wanders over my body. “One kiss. No hands. Fully clothed. That’s what you want from me from now on?”
What a loaded question, especially when my body is still humming for him. But every instinct tells me to tread carefully. “I want whatever you’re able to give, Xaden.”
“No.” His scarred eyebrow rises as he slowly walks back to me. “You forget that I know your body as well as my own, Vi.” His thumb ghosts across my lips. “Your mouth is swollen, your face is flushed, and your eyes…” He skims his tongue over his lower lip. “They’re all hazy and leaning more toward green than blue. Your pulse is racing, and the way you keep shifting your weight tells me that if I were to strip these pants off you right now, I’d find you more than ready for me.”
I bite back a whimper. If I wasn’t before, I sure as hell would be now.
“A kiss isn’t enough. It never is with us.” His fingers find the bottom of my coronet braid, and he tugs, tilting my face toward him. “You want me the same way that I want you. Wholly. Completely. With nothing but skin between us. Heart, mind, and body.” He brushes his mouth against mine, stuttering my breath. “All I want is to lose myself in you, and I can’t. You are the only person in the world with the power to strip me of every ounce of my control, and the only person I can’t fathom losing that control with.” He lifts his head. “And yet here I am, unable to keep three fucking feet away from you.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I promise, struggling to calm my heartbeat. “We always do. You’ll learn how to keep your control while I find a cure.”
“And if we have to draw the line at a kiss?” His gaze drops to my mouth.
“Then that’s the line. If it means I don’t get to have you in my bed until I find a way to cure you, then I guess that’s just extra incentive for me to work quickly, isn’t it?”
He releases my braid and stands at his full height. “You really think you can, don’t you?”
“Yes.” I nod. “I won’t lose you, not even to yourself.”
He leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I can’t stay on the front,” he says softly. “I might be one of the most powerful riders on the Continent, but out there I’m also the most dangerous.”
“I know.” My spine stiffens as I contemplate everything that can go wrong out there and what just went right for me. “Speaking of powerful…”
He tips my chin back to look in my eyes. “What is it?”
“Garrick’s a distance wielder, isn’t he?” I don’t bother hinting around the question.
A moment of silence passes between us, but I see the confirmation in his eyes. “Are you pissed I didn’t tell you?”
I shake my head. “You don’t owe me your friends’ secrets.” My brow knits. “But twenty hours of flying gave me some time to think. You. Garrick.” I tilt my head. “And I once thought I saw Liam…”
“Wield ice,” Xaden says, stroking his thumb along my chin.
I nod. “How often do second signets accompany these particular relics?” My fingers trail down the side of his neck.
“Often enough to be sure Kaori can’t possibly have accurate records, but not too completely that anyone questions why I only present with one,” he answers. “Our dragons came looking for us. They knew what they were doing.”
“Giving you a better chance of survival?” I rest my hand over his heart.
“If you wax sentimental. More like building their own army.” A corner of his mouth rises. “More signets equal more power.”
“Right.” I take a deep breath, knowing we still need to talk about Samara. “The report Rhiannon gave at Samara left some things out because we didn’t want to contribute to misinformation or look like we don’t know what we’re talking about. What did Garrick tell you?”
“You mean besides the fact that the dark wielder toyed with you and let you go?” His eyes narrow. “Not much beyond what arrived in the report, which pissed me off because I could tell he wasn’t being fully honest. He’s never been able to lie to me. What did you leave out?”
“Am I talking to the man I love? Or the Duke of Tyrrendor? Either way, this could be really embarrassing.” Heat creeps up my neck. If I sound a false alarm, I’ll look like a fool.
“Both,” Xaden replies. “I don’t want to be different people to you. Anyone else? Fine. Just not you. You’re stuck with all of me, and all of me is quite capable of keeping your confidence. I’ll use Tyrrendor to protect you, not you to protect Tyrrendor.”
“I’ve already told you I’m happy to protect your home.” My hand fists the fabric of his uniform. “She wielded lightning,” I whisper, and his brow furrows. “Xaden, I think we’re wrong. I don’t think they’re limited to lesser magics. I think maybe…they have signets, too.”
“I believe you.” He doesn’t so much as flinch. “What else did you leave out?”
• • •
Over the next week, our professors display just how accomplished they are at making everything at Basgiath feel almost routine, like we’re not in the middle of a war. Physics, RSC—with a new professor, since Grady is busy organizing the quest squad and researching where to go—math, and magics. All classes have resumed save one: history.
Guess we’re still waiting for Cygnisen’s cadets to arrive before beginning that one.
If the third-years weren’t gone half the time staffing the midland posts, it might even feel like we never left except for the fact that the fliers have joined us. When Cygnisen’s fliers arrive, we’ll be near maximum capacity in the dorms, which only makes me realize just how many dragons have stopped bonding in the last century.
“This came to Treifelz last night,” Imogen says, stifling a yawn and handing me a folded, sealed missive when we meet at the bridge to the Healer Quadrant. Can’t blame her—she’s been up all night at the midland post.
Dawn breaks through the windows, but the mage lights give more than enough brightness to make out her name as the addressee. “I don’t think this is meant for me.” My eyebrows rise as I read the name of the sender. “Especially coming from Garrick.”
“Right, because Garrick writes to me.” She rolls her eyes and stretches her shoulders before pulling open the door into the tunnel. “Everyone knows Aetos is going to read anything with your name on it.”
I break the seal and smile at Xaden’s handwriting, but it quickly slips.
V—
We fought in Fervan last night, called by an attack upon civilians. It is with deepest regret that I delay my return in favor of rest. I walked the edge of burnout, but the lives we saved were worth the cost, and Garrick has informed the healers I’ll be in quarters, recovering, until further notice. Lewellen is standing in as proxy in case the Senarium orders any emergency meetings.
It is worse than we imagined beyond the wards, but I have a solution in mind to prevent future burnouts. Is it just me? Or does my pillow smell like you?
Yours,
—X
My steps slow as we make our way down the tunnel, dread thickening my throat, and I pause at the top of the staircase that leads to the interrogation chamber and stuff the letter into the breast pocket inside my uniform. “He slipped.”
Imogen tenses. “He said that?”
I shake my head. “He was careful with his wording, but I’m sure. There’s no other reason he’d need to lock himself away in his quarters to recover from a near burnout unless he’s waiting for his eyes to return to their normal color.”
“Fuck.” She starts down the steps, and I follow. “We need to get him off the border.”
“I know. And I need to find a cure.”
“You’re sure this is how you want to go about it?” Imogen stifles another yawn.
“Every possible path,” I tell her, running my hands down my sheaths to make sure each dagger is in place, as well as a vial or two. “He’s the only direct source of information we have. You sure you’re up for this? I completely understand if you’re too tired.” They’re running the third-years into the ground.
“I could do this shit in my sleep.” She unbuttons her flight jacket. “You meet with Grady yet?”
“Next week.” I sigh. “He’s still researching before he’ll deign to meet with me, but he sent a first draft of the squad yesterday, and the only rider I know on it is Aura-fucking-Beinhaven, because—get this—she’s a trustable companion of my own age and the most powerful fire wielder in the quadrant.”
“Does he know you’ve already almost killed her this month?” She lifts her brows.
“Don’t think he cares. He has no idea where to start, either, which I only know because he tried to get his dragon to question Andarna. And that’s after reading my report stating everything she remembered about her first hundred years in shell, which—like most dragons late to hatch—is nothing.”
“How did that go for him?” Imogen asks, her brow scrunching.
“Tairn removed a dozen of her neck scales, and Andarna left teeth marks in her tail.”
“We’ll collect enough next time to make you new armor,” Andarna promises.
“From his dragon? Thank you, but no,” I reply.
A smile tugs at Imogen’s lips. “Got exactly what she deserves.” Her smile falls. “I agree you need experienced riders on the squad, but it’s hard to trust judgment like that.”
Emery and Heaton both look up from their card game as we come around the last turn. “You brought Sorrengail with you this time?” Emery asks, lifting his brows.
“Clearly,” Imogen replies.
We cross the stone floor, and I look away from the bloodstained table as we approach.
“Why do I feel like you only visit when we’re on guard?” Heaton sets their cards on the table. “Also, I win.”
Emery looks at what Heaton’s laid down and sighs. “You have unnaturally good luck with cards.”
“Zihnal is with me.” Heaton grins and scratches the magenta flames dyed into their hair. “Both of you going in?” They glance over our weaponry. “He probably has twenty-four hours left at this rate, but I can’t vouch for what he’s capable of.”
“I’ve got this.” I pat the vials strapped to my upper biceps.
“I do not doubt that. Nolon and Markham usually arrive at seven to start their daily questioning, so be quick. And I wouldn’t expect much. He’s usually silent.” Heaton unlocks the cell door, then steps out of the way. “You have visitors.”
I walk into the doorway but stop abruptly, causing Imogen to curse behind me.
Jack doesn’t just look like shit; he looks like death. He’s sprawled on the same stone floor I nearly bled out on a few months ago, but there are thick shackles around his wrists and ankles anchoring him to the wall behind the slab of a bed they must have reconstructed after Xaden blew it apart. Jack’s blond hair hangs oily and limp, and the pallid skin of his face has sunken into his skull, reminding me far more of a corpse than a human.
Then again, maybe he really isn’t human anymore.
And what would that make Xaden?
I breathe deeply, then step through the wards Mira created, magic tingling at the back of my neck as Jack lifts his red-rimmed eyes in my direction. They’re still glacially blue at the center of the iris, but the red has blurred the edges. “Jack.”
Imogen comes in behind me, then shuts the cell door, locking us in. It’s a shitty but necessary evil to make sure Heaton and Emery don’t hear what’s discussed.
I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, pretending this isn’t the cell where Varrish shattered my bones for days, but the smell of damp earth and old blood sets my teeth on edge.
“What could you possibly want, Sorrengail?” Jack croaks through cracked lips, not bothering to lift his cheek from the floor.
Imogen leans back against the door, and I crouch in front of Jack, just out of reach in case he decides to test the limits of his tether. “To make an exchange.”
“You think out of all the interrogations, the mendings, that I’ll finally break for you?” Hatred shines from his eyes.
“No.” I don’t bother telling him that he’s broken for Xaden multiple times already. “But I do think you want to live.” I reach into my pocket and retrieve the tiny medallion of alloy from my conduit. The shiny, heavy metallic substance is smooth and hot in the palm of my hand, dimly humming as I hold it out for display. “It’s imbued with enough power to keep you alive for at least another week.”
His gaze snaps hungrily to the metal. “But not enough to fully feed me.”
“I’m not helping you escape, if that’s what you’re asking.” I sit on the floor and cross my ankles beneath me. “But answer a few questions for me and it’s yours.”
“And if I’d rather meet Malek?” he challenges.
“Does your kind meet Malek?” I counter, setting the alloy just out of reach and pulling one of the glass vials from my arm strap when he doesn’t respond. “You’re a day away from finding out, but if you’d like me to end your suffering, I came prepared to do so.” The glass clicks against stone as I lay it next to the alloy.
“Is that…” He stares at the vial.
“Powdered orange peel. Simple, yet effective in your case, given how close your body is to giving out. Merciful, too, considering your actions resulted in my mother’s death. But I’m not so merciful as to leave you with a dagger.”
A sneer lifts his mouth as he pushes himself to sit up in a macabre display of angular, emaciated bone. Chains rattle against stone, and I’m relieved to see my estimate was right. There’s three feet between us, but he can only cross half of it. “You were always too merciful. Too weak.”
“True.” I shrug. “I have always struggled when confronted with a suffering animal. Now, unlike you, I have somewhere I need to be, so choose.”
His gaze drifts to the alloy. “How many questions?”
“Depends on how long you want to live.” I push the silver-hued substance toward him, keeping it just out of reach. “Four for today.” One of which I already know the answer to, just to make sure he isn’t bullshitting me.
“And I’m supposed to trust that you’ll give it to me?” He glances toward Imogen.
“You’re far better off with her than you are with me, asshole. I’ll happily sit here and watch you die,” Imogen replies.
“First question,” I start. “Can you sense each other?”
He stares at the alloy, then swallows. “Yes. When we’re new, we’re not as adept at hiding ourselves. I’m told it’s so we’ll be found and raised by an elder, usually a Sage, but in rare cases a Maven may take interest.” A corner of his mouth lifts. “Initiates, asims—we’re all traceable to one another, but the great hall could fill with Sages and Mavens and I’d never know. Neither would you.” His eyes sparkle, and red veins pulse at the corners of his eyes. “Makes you wonder who’s been channeling here for years, doesn’t it? Who’s been trading information for power?”
My heart jolts into my throat. “Do you have to be taught to channel? Or can you turn evil all on your own?” I ask, refusing to give him the satisfaction of admitting that I’m now terrified of who might walk among us.
“Ask what you really want to know.” His voice turns raspy, and I ignore the instinct to hand him his untouched glass of water from his uneaten breakfast tray. “Ask me when I turned, how I turned. Ask why only initiates bleed.”
I absorb that information and move right along.
“Do you have to be taught?” I repeat. Xaden did it on his own, but I need to know if we’re in danger from every random infantry cadet who didn’t have the guts to cross the parapet.
His breath rattles, and he drops his focus to the alloy. “Not if you’re already experienced with the flow of magic. Someone who has never wielded would require instruction, but a dragon rider or gryphon flier?” He shakes his head. “The source is there. We just have to choose to see it, to bypass the gatekeepers and take what’s rightfully ours.” He lifts his hand, but the chain brings him up short. “Power should be accessible to everyone strong enough to wield it, not just who they see fit. You conveniently see me as the villain, but you’re bonded to two.”
I blatantly ignore that insult. “Do you know their plan?”
He scoffs. “Does a first-year command the wings? No. We’re not as stupid as you assume. Information is need-to-know. What a waste of a question. One more.”
“Last question.” I push the alloy to the edge of its current stone. “How do you cure yourself once you channel from the source?”
“Cure?” He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You talk like I’m diseased, when what I really am is free.” He wavers. “Well, free in part. We trade some of our autonomy in the exchange for unfettered access to power. Maybe you see it as a loss of our soul, but we aren’t burdened by conscience or weakened by emotional attachment. We advance based on our own capabilities, our own talents, and not at the whim of some creature. There’s no cure because magic does not negotiate, and we do not wish to be cured.”
The utter disdain for the question hits like a blow to the stomach, knocking the air from my lungs. At some point, will Xaden stop wanting to be cured? “I keep my bargains,” I manage to say before tossing the alloy his way.
He catches it with surprising quickness, closing his fist and then his eyes. “Yes,” he whispers, and I watch, transfixed, as his cheeks plump and fill with color. The cracks in his lips disappear, and there’s a bit more substance underneath his shirt. His eyes flash open and the veins pulse beside his eyes as he flings the alloy back at me.
I catch it, immediately registering its emptiness, then pocket the medallion and slip the orange peel into my armband before standing.
“Do come again,” he says, sitting back and raising his knees.
“About a week,” I reply with a nod as Imogen walks to my side. Our time is nearly up, but there’s one more question I need to ask. “Why me?” I add. “Surely they’ve offered you the same reward. So why answer my questions and not theirs?”
He narrows his eyes. “Did you scream for Riorson to save you when they locked you down here and broke your bones?”
“I’m sorry?” Blood drains from my face. He did not just ask me that.
Jack leans forward. “Did you cry for Riorson when they strapped you to the chair and watched your blood fill the cracks between the stones on its way to the drain? I only ask because I swear I can feel it when I lie on the floor—all your pain singing to me like a lullaby.”
I flinch.
“There.” Jack’s smile sharpens and chills with sickening excitement. “That look right there is why I chose to answer your questions, for the satisfaction of us both knowing that I can still cut you and I don’t have to lift a blade.”
I breathe in the scent that haunts my nightmares and glance around the cell, half expecting to realize this has all been a hallucination and I’m still locked into the chair, and half expecting to see Liam, but all I find are desiccated, gray stones, drained of any and all magic.
“Do you really think this is the only room where I’ve felt tormented? Pain isn’t new to me, Jack. She’s an old friend I spend most of my days with, so I don’t mind if she sings to you. Honestly doesn’t even look like the same chamber with how you’ve redecorated. It’s a little monochromatic for me.” I step to the side. “Imogen, I’m ready to go.”
“And what’s to keep me from telling your favorite scribe that you’ve been feeding the enemy?” Jack’s smile widens.
“Hard to talk about something you don’t remember.” Imogen steps into his space, and his grin slips.
Four minutes later, we emerge from the staircase and find Rhiannon, Ridoc, and Sawyer waiting in the tunnel.
“For fuck’s sake, can’t you four do anything by yourselves?” Imogen mutters.
