The Will and the Wilds(52)

The words strike me like an open hand. “Of course not! I’ve done nothing but help you!”

He growls. “You’ve done nothing but help yourself. You’re using me like a puppet, just like you did that gobler.”

“You’re a fool,” I spit. “You may have my soul, Maekallus, but anything you feel is entirely your own.”

My pulse quickens, sending new energy through my blood. What am I making him feel, precisely?

I lift my wrist and tear at the clasp of my bracelet. It comes undone. I toss silver and stone at Maekallus’s chest, where he catches it with both hands.

“There.” He gapes at the stone before his eyes flicker to me. He’s silent for a long moment, his expression a mix of surprise and sadness. I’ve given him perhaps the most powerful weapon known to mankind or mysting. He does not wield it against me, only cradles it in his hands, making it look small and unimportant.

My anger fizzles. I step toward him. “I promise I haven’t . . . manipulated you, Maekallus.”

“But you have,” he whispers. Not accusatory. The fire in his eyes dies down to a smolder, the ruddy light fixed on me. I can’t look away. There’s a spell in their depths, different from my stone and his binding, different from the bargain we made. Stronger.

He palms the bracelet and reaches out, touching my shoulder, running his fingers up the side of my neck. Tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. I place a hand over his and lean into his touch, entranced by his eyes.

I whisper, as though my voice would sever the sorcery between us. “Are you afraid of being human?”

His gaze flicks to my mouth. “I wish I were.”

I knit my fingers between his. He studies me like he’s seeing me for the first time. Like he’s waking from deep sleep and is out of place, out of time. The urge to hold him, to make promises to him, is so strong I could weep anew. I squeeze his hand. He comes closer. His other hand rests against my waist, traces the round of my hip. We breathe the same air, but now, in this moment, it’s not enough.

I stand on my toes, tilt my face up to him. He looks into my eyes, and I wonder what he sees there.

His hand shifts to the back of my head and pulls me close, until his lips crash against mine.

He’s warm, so blissfully warm. My fingers dance up his chest to find his soft hair, his neck, his jaw. My heartbeat swims in my skull. Maekallus tilts my head to the right to claim the whole of my mouth. I part my lips, welcoming him, sighing when his tongue traces mine. I foolishly cling to him, to his warmth, to his sweetness, to the scent of the wildwood that cleaves to his skin.

But even beautiful things must end, for even most of a soul cannot change what Maekallus is.

I kiss him, and another piece of myself breaks. In its wake, I’m left cold and hollow.





CHAPTER 21

There is no sun in the Deep, also known as the realm of monsters. Its source of ruddy light is unknown.

But it is a horrible place.





She turns to ice in his arms.

Maekallus wrenches back from her as the new piece of soul collides with him, fueling the passion and need devouring his insides, lacing them with something sour, frosted, and heavy. He knows the sensation, knows it in an almost nostalgic way, and hates it instantly.

Guilt.

“Enna?” He grabs her by the shoulders. She looks dazed and hangs limp in his grip. Her skin is cold. Too cold.

His fault. What had he been thinking? Did he suppose this time would be different, that he could kiss her and it wouldn’t do . . . this? That if he puts on the costume of a human, he can be like her? That he can belong in a world that despises his kind? He doesn’t even need more of her soul, not yet, but he stole it from her, and now she—

She groans, his name a whisper on her lips. Her lips.

Spitting every foul word he can conjure, he picks her up and lays her on the rug before the fire, spitting another curse when his horn nicks the mantel. Even in the dim light she looks too pale. She curls in on herself, turning toward the fire. Maekallus searches for a blanket, but finds none. Fumbling with the Will Stone, he presses it to her palm and forces her fingers around it. Live, live.

In the back room, her father coughs again. Enna’s eyes flutter with alertness. After a few long seconds, the coughing stops.

Enna shivers and tries to pick herself up off the rug. “Is he . . . ?”

Maekallus turns for the hallway.

“Don’t . . . let him see you.”

Setting his jaw, he ducks and hurries through the halls, finding the room that held a middle-aged man. He stays only long enough to hear the rattle of his inhale—he has some sort of sickness in his lungs—before returning to Enna’s side, again hitting that mantel. Narvals aren’t built for human homes.

“He’s fine.” Maekallus grabs the edge of the rug and drags it, and her, closer to the fire.

The new piece of soul inside him bares its claws and rakes them from the base of his throat to his stomach. Your fault. Your lies.

But he hadn’t wanted this. He hadn’t meant to . . .

Idiot. Ka’pig.

Her teeth chatter.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words strange on his tongue. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

She opens and closes her hands. “I can’t . . . feel my fingertips.”