The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves #1)(94)

I know what they did. It’s not your fault.

Tristan had wept against her. He didn’t even ask how she knew, he simply trusted, and the weight of it left her aching. She would not let anyone make Tristan cry. Never again.

“Laila?” whispered Tristan.

She shook her head, careful not to speak. The Night Bite was cold on her tongue. She only had one chance to use it, and she needed to time the moment just right. Laila glanced up, focusing on Séverin. Even now, even bruised, he looked like a king. His gaze stern. Unflinching. But not on her.

Roux-Joubert screamed louder. “Get that Tezcat open!”

The man with the blade-brim hat shrank. The obsidian chips of the Tezcat had fallen off, crashing and splintering on the ever-rolling floor. But the Tezcat did not budge. On the other side, the crowd of cloaked people remained unmoving.

The rest of the Fallen House.

Laila shuddered to look at them … so pale … so still.

“Sir, there’s no way … there is something blocking it,” said Roux-Joubert’s associate, removing his hat and placing it on his chest. “I … Perhaps you might use your blood? As you did before? The strength of your ichor will surely be enough.”

Roux-Joubert swallowed, his eyes wild. He touched his arm gingerly. “I do not like to keep the doctor waiting. But I have nothing left to give.”

Tristan squeezed Laila’s arm. She could sense his panic, the quick inhale he drew into his lungs.

“But you…” said Roux-Joubert, turning to Séverin. “What essence lies in the veins of the blood heir of House Vanth? I was told not to spill your blood … proof, perhaps, that the doctor sees some worth in you, but I find myself tempted.”

Laila nudged Tristan. He hesitated, and then he drew her hair in a tight fist, yanking her head forward. Laila winced. But it was part of the plan.

“Please,” she murmured. “A moment.”

Roux-Joubert’s eyes widened. He smiled, and the waxen skin around his lips cracked from the effort.

“Rather devoted whore you have, boy,” he said, sneering at Séverin. “It seems she wishes to say goodbye. Why not. I always planned to be benevolent.”

Séverin went still. His gaze burned into hers. Laila let herself be led by Tristan. Then, lightly, she touched Tristan’s wrist. She needed Séverin to know that she had seen what truly happened. That he had to trust her.

Séverin blinked slowly. In the gloaming of the catacombs, his lashes cast spiked shadows onto his face. When he raised his gaze to her, blue glinted in those violet depths.

Tristan shoved her forward.

Laila didn’t wait. She grabbed Séverin’s face, fingers threading in his hair as she lowered her lips to his, memories and promises tangling together.

We can’t do this again.

I know.

His eyes flew open, pupils blown wide. His mouth opened beneath hers and she could taste him. Blood and cloves. Her hand pressed into the cut of his cheek, and he winced into her mouth.

Kisses were not supposed to be like this. Kisses were to be witnessed by stars, not held in the presence of stale death. But as the bones rose around them, Laila saw fractals of white. They looked like pale constellations, and she thought that, perhaps, for a kiss like this, even hell would put forth stars.





29





SéVERIN


Séverin should never have closed his eyes. He didn’t even register it happening because the whole moment seemed to occur outside the scope of his reality. Of course, she would kiss him as the world unhinged around them. Why not. Logic danced at the edges of his senses when Laila brought her lips to his.

Séverin seized her lips, felt her yield, tasted her.

She tasted impossible.

Like candied moonlight.

And then something hard rolled onto his tongue. Night Bite. He remembered, in a rush, how she had tucked it into her satchel right before they had left. Logic righted itself. Whatever horizon tipped deliriously in his mind now settled, restored.

Of course, it wasn’t a real kiss.

They had sworn off those.

Roux-Joubert yanked her back. “My moment of mercy is done.”

Séverin’s eyes narrowed. “Then come and kill me.”

Roux-Joubert’s smile gleamed manic. “If you insist.”

He slid out a knife. Séverin waited, tensing.

Come closer.

Roux-Joubert held out the knife.

And then, far above in the hidden shelves of the terraces, Séverin heard a snick of a match. A crackle lit up the air. Sulfur stamping out the stench of death. A sudden heat warmed his back, illuminating Roux-Joubert’s face as flames sprang to life in the catacombs.

Séverin pushed the Night Bite to the front of his teeth. Just as the other man turned, he spat.

Ink splattered everywhere. Black billowed out from his mouth, fanning across Roux-Joubert. Séverin jolted back as the blade grazed his neck. Roux-Joubert stumbled. A cyclone of ink surrounded him. The man in the blade-brim hat rushed toward him. Séverin struggled against the bounds of his rope. He tried to shuffle on his knees, moving out of the way. His knee skidded on the wet gravel, pitching him forward. Light gleamed off the blade and Séverin’s breath gathered in a tight knot— Tristan launched himself at the man. Séverin tumbled, his temple knocking against a sizable boulder. Laila rushed to him, undoing the knots, swaying even as she tried to free him. The very ground beneath them was treacherous. Tristan rushed over to them, his eyes wide.