Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(72)

She did turn after all, because she wanted to see his face. On seeing it—the not-quite-right smile, the bleakness in his eyes—she abandoned all effort at anger and silently came into his arms. She felt him take a sudden, deep breath that seemed more like a shudder, and then he relaxed against her. Heavy in her arms. He smelled like death and alcohol, but she ignored that and pulled him closer. She put her lips close to his ear and said, “Well done, my prince.”

“You know what happened?”

“I was told,” she whispered. “Oh, Dario. Why didn’t you tell me Santi—”

“There wasn’t time. From the moment that Santi found that the Elites had taken the Greek fire facility and had control of the automata, the clock was spinning. His forces were already stretched thin. He needed a . . . creative solution.”

“And that was you.”

“I am good at deception,” he said. “Growing up in my world, that’s considered quite a strength.”

She pushed him back a little and met his gaze. “You don’t fool me,” she said. “It was worse than we were told, wasn’t it?”

“If it was, do you think I’d ever tell you? However would I maintain my image as—what was it Jess called me once—a right bastard?”

He had his defenses up, gilded and sharp. She decided not to test them. She kissed him instead, and his response seemed desperate to her. As if he couldn’t quite believe it was real. His lips tasted bitter for a moment, and then bittersweet as heartbreak and moonlight. But warm, so warm. So wanting. Her fingers trembled against his face, and she thought she might break from longing. Today of all days, she needed to feel love.

And so, very evidently, did he. She could feel the feverish longing in him, and something else, something so desperate it took her breath.

“Easy, querida,” he whispered when they separated just enough to breathe. “I don’t want to forget my promises. Or your duty.”

There was such a terrible bitter weight on the word duty. She felt him trembling. “Dario,” she said. “You can tell me what happened. You know you can.”

He shook his head. His smile seemed desperate to her, and then it crumbled like a falling wall. He caught his breath on a sob that took him by surprise, and it took all his strength to try to hide that pain again.

“No,” she whispered, and put her hands on his face. “My love, there is no shame in tears for a terrible thing. However necessary it might have been.”

He almost let go. Almost. But then that glittering, feverish smile rallied. “Ah, querida. I will weep when this is done. For now, I will move to the next moment, and I want to spend that with you, not bad memories.” He took a breath. “If I’m honest with myself, I want to spend every moment with you.” No jests now, no defenses. “I asked you to marry me. I truly was not joking, Khalila. Choose the day, and I’ll write the marriage contract.”

He was so serious, so vulnerable, that it frightened her. She kissed him again. And again. And when she felt that wound in him had sealed a little, she whispered, “I would say today, if I could. You know that.”

“But soon, yes?”

“Soon,” she confirmed, and smiled. “And what will you give as a meher?” She was teasing him, really. The meher was an ancient practice, tradition and symbol now instead of the bride’s compensation as it once was.

“My heart, for the token,” he said. “And half my wealth, if you’ll have it.”

He wasn’t joking. She had to check twice to be certain of that. “Dario! I don’t need your money. Surely you don’t think—”

“I don’t. But what is mine is yours, flower. And always will be. Marriage contract or not. Formalities or not. That’s what I believe.”

She kissed him again. Gently this time. “Soon.”

“Name the day.”

“Quiet, you,” she said when they finally parted, and led him to a padded sofa someone had dragged against the wall. It was serving as her catnap spot; she couldn’t imagine having a full night’s sleep anymore. Not as things were. “Sit and rest. Have you eaten?”

Dario shook his head. He bent forward and ran his hands distractedly through his wavy black hair. “I just realized that I stink like a pig farmer,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just . . . needed to see you.”

“I’m glad. I’ll find you food. For now, lie down. Rest.”

“Lie down with me?” he asked, and then smiled at her raised eyebrows. “You know what I mean. A little comfort, that’s all.”

“It’s never that simple with you, Dario.”

“Are you suggesting that I am not a gentleman?”

“Never. But you certainly pretend not to be one to everyone else.”

He shrugged. “They see what they expect to see,” he said. Their hands fell close together and automatically entwined, fingers yearning for each other. “Khalila—” He was trembling on the edge of that memory, that darkness that he was trying to escape. She sat down beside him. “I did things today, saw things—I don’t know. Is it worth it? What we’re doing?”

“It has to be,” she said. “If the Great Library comes to pieces, what’s left? Warring kingdoms fighting over the bones, dragging apart the Archives, hoarding and hiding knowledge? Do you want to live in that world?”