“Today—who you were today … that wasn’t entirely a mask.”

“That bothers you? You saw me cut down the king’s men.”

“It bothers me that the people we met today didn’t bat an eye at that person. It bothers me that you were that person for a time.”

“What do you want me to tell you? Do you want me to apologize for it?”

“No—gods, no. I just …” The words were coming out all wrong. “You know that when I went to those war camps, when I became general … I let the lines blur, too. But I was still in the North, still home, among our people. You came here instead, and had to grow up with those piece-of-shit men, and … I wish I’d been here. I wish Arobynn had somehow found me, too, and raised us together.”

“You were older. You never would have let Arobynn take us. The moment he looked away, you would have grabbed me and run.”

True—very true, but … “The person you were today, and a few years ago—that person had no joy, or love.”

“Gods, I had some, Aedion. I wasn’t a complete monster.”

“Still, I just wanted you to know all that.”

“That you feel guilty that I became an assassin while you endured the war camps and battlefields?”

“That I wasn’t there. That you had to face those people alone.” He added, “You came up with that whole plan by yourself and didn’t trust any of us with it. You took on the burden of getting that money. I could have found a way—gods, I would have married whatever wealthy princess or empress you asked me to, if they promised men and money.”

“I’m never going to sell you off like chattel,” she snapped. “And we have enough now to pay for an army, don’t we?”

“Yes.” And then some. “But that’s beside the point, Aelin.” He took a breath. “The point is—I should have been there then, but I am here now. I’m healed. Let me share this burden.”

She tipped her head back, savoring the breeze off the river. “And what could I ever ask of you that I couldn’t do myself?”

“That’s the problem. Yes, you can do most things on your own. That doesn’t mean you have to.”

“Why should I risk your life?” The words were clipped.

Ah. Ah. “Because I’m still more expendable than you are.”

“Not to me.” The words were barely more than a whisper.

Aedion put a hand on her back, his own reply clogged in his throat. Even with the world going to hell around them, just hearing her say that, standing here beside her—it was a dream.

She stayed silent, so he mastered himself enough to say, “What, exactly, are we going to do now?”

She glanced at him. “I’m going to free magic, take down the king, and kill Dorian. The order of the last two items on that list could be flipped, depending on how it all goes.”

His heart stopped. “What?”

“Was something about that not clear?”

All of it. Every damn part of it. He had no doubt she would do it—even the part about killing her friend. If Aedion objected, she’d only lie and cheat and trick him.

“What and when and how?” he asked.

“Rowan’s working on the first leg of it.”

“That sounds a lot like, ‘I have more secrets that I’m going to spring on you whenever I feel like stopping your heart dead in your chest.’”

But her answering smile told him he would get nowhere with her. He couldn’t decide if it charmed or disappointed him.

Rowan was half-asleep in bed by the time Aelin returned hours later, murmuring good night to Aedion before slipping into her room. She didn’t so much as glance in his direction as she began unbuckling her weapons and piling them on the table before the unlit hearth.

Efficient, quick, quiet. Not a sound from her.

“I went hunting for Lorcan,” he said. “I tracked his scent around the city, but didn’t see him.”

“Is he dead, then?” Another dagger clattered onto the table.

“The scent was fresh. Unless he died an hour ago, he’s still very much alive.”

“Good,” she said simply as she walked into the open closet to change. Or just to avoid looking at him some more.

She emerged moments later in one of those flimsy little nightgowns, and all the thoughts went right out of his damn head. Well, apparently she’d been mortified by their earlier encounter—but not enough to wear something more matronly to bed.

The pink silk clung to her waist and slid over her hips as she approached the bed, revealing the glorious length of her bare legs, still lean and tan from all the time they’d spent outdoors this spring. A strip of pale yellow lace graced the plunging neckline, and he tried—gods damn him, he honestly tried—not to look at the smooth curve of her breasts as she bent to climb into bed.

He supposed any lick of self-consciousness had been flayed from her under the whips of Endovier. Even though he’d tattooed over the bulk of the scars on her back, their ridges remained. The nightmares, too—when she’d still startle awake and light a candle to drive away the blackness they’d shoved her into, the memory of the lightless pits they’d used for punishment. His Fireheart, shut in the dark.

He owed the overseers of Endovier a visit.

Aelin might have an inclination to punish anyone who’d hurt him, but she didn’t seem to realize that he—and Aedion, too—might also have scores to settle on her behalf. And as an immortal, he had infinite patience where those monsters were concerned.

Her scent hit him as she unbound her hair and nestled into the pile of pillows. That scent had always struck him, had always been a call and a challenge. It had shaken him so thoroughly from centuries encased in ice that he’d hated her at first. And now … now that scent drove him out of his mind.

They were both really damn lucky that she currently couldn’t shift into her Fae form and smell what was pounding through his blood. It had been hard enough to conceal it from her until now. Aedion’s knowing looks told him enough about what her cousin had detected.

He’d seen her naked before—a few times. And gods, yes, there had been moments when he’d considered it, but he’d mastered himself. He’d learned to keep those useless thoughts on a short, short leash. Like that time she’d moaned at the breeze he sent her way on Beltane—the arch of her neck, the parting of that mouth of hers, the sound that came out of her—

She was now lying on her side, her back to him.

“About last night,” he said through his teeth.

“It’s fine. It was a mistake.”

Look at me. Turn over and look at me.

But she remained with her back to him, the moonlight caressing the silk bunched over the dip of her waist, the slope of her hip.

His blood heated. “I didn’t mean to—snap at you,” he tried.

“I know you didn’t.” She tugged the blanket up as if she could feel the weight of his gaze lingering on that soft, inviting place between her neck and shoulder—one of the few places on her body that wasn’t marked with scars or ink. “I don’t even know what happened, but it’s been a strange few days, so let’s just chalk it up to that, all right? I need to sleep.”

He debated telling her that it was not all right, but he said, “Fine.”

Moments later, she was indeed asleep.

He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, tucking a hand beneath his head.

He needed to sort this out—needed to get her to just look at him again, so he could try to explain that he hadn’t been prepared. Having her touch the tattoo that told the story of what he’d done and how he’d lost Lyria … He hadn’t been ready for what he felt in that moment. The desire hadn’t been what shook him at all. It was just … Aelin had driven him insane these past few weeks, and yet he hadn’t considered what it would be like to have her look at him with interest.

It wasn’t at all the way it had been with the lovers he’d taken in the past: even when he’d cared for them, he hadn’t really cared. Being with them had never made him think of that flower market. Never made him remember that he was alive and touching another woman while Lyria—Lyria was dead. Slaughtered.