The Rebels of Gold (Loom Saga #3)(73)

Arianna stepped away.

And was tugged closer.

His cheek was against hers, staving off the first prickle of tears by pressing his flesh to her own. His mouth was on her ear, and he uttered promises she didn’t know if her heart could hear.

“We never saw them that way, Ari. We couldn’t get them home.”

“You lie.” Her mind knew better, but her heart begged to believe him. It ached for him despite herself.

“I never saw them that way,” he clarified.

“Set them free, then.”

“Is this your boon?”

“No, this is what you will do for me if you truly care for me.”

“And care for you, I do.” He moved the corner of his mouth against hers, and then the whole of his lips.

She leaned into him, matched him touch for touch. She hated herself for it, for needing it, for wanting it, for wanting him.

Eva forgive me.

“Free them,” she repeated. It was the only thing she could cling to. She’d lost all other dignity the moment her fingers curled around his.

“I will. When I am Dono, I will,” he uttered.

And then, the tears fell.

Not since the death of her master and her last lover had she cried. For what Arianna had just heard was the decree that would separate them; it was the utterance that would tear them apart as the great machine of fate continued to roll over the world.

He would be Dono, and she would be no one. That would be the end of them.

So, for now, she indulged herself. Arianna cast aside all pride. She pulled him by the scraps of fabric he called clothing and pressed herself against him. She felt the curves of that all-too-familiar chest, the swell of his pectorals before they fell to the dips of his abdomen.

Cvareh’s hands moved to her face, held her mouth to his, and they breathed together for a blissful moment.

“I will be leaving soon.”

“When?” The word was more of a gasp—part groan, into her neck.

“Soon. I must return to Loom. I must bring flowers with me. There are boxes ready for tempering; we shouldn’t dally.”

“When?” he repeated.

“Tomorrow? Soon.” She had to return to her world and leave him to his, or else they would fall into that contented state that dulled the pressing needs of all they had become responsible for.

“Then give yourself to me now?”

Like he had given her a choice. “I demand something in exchange.”

He laughed darkly against her shoulder. “Of course you do.”

“I want your lungs.”

“My lungs?” he repeated.

If he were to give them to her, perhaps she could make time stop. In those frozen moments, she could let go of her own harsh judgment for loving such a man. She could savor him, as though he wasn’t about to step into a role that prohibited her from standing by his side.

It would be the only part of him she could keep forever.

“Give them to me. Make me Perfect.”

He paused and pulled away. His brow furrowed as he inspected her thoughtfully. His long, blue fingers ran through her snow-colored hair and swept it from her brow in thought.

“Arianna, you were perfect long before the Philosopher’s Box.”

If only it were true.

“Give them to me. Please.”

“If that is what you want of me, then it is yours.” He kissed her again. “I am yours.”

Cvareh crushed her lips with his and encircled her waist with his arms, and Arianna forgot about all reservations as he pushed her against the wall.





Florence


“With this, we will be able to fight Dragons head-on,” Vicar Gregory addressed the Revolvers’ Guild. In his hand was a weapon he hoisted up to his shoulder with ease. It had the look of a rifle, only shorter and fatter through the barrel. Wires connected disk-like multipliers, covered in the scratches of Alchemical runes, along its length. “With this, we will no longer be forced to rely on imperfect alchemy or failed negotiations.”

“Will there be a Philosopher’s Box?” an initiate asked from Florence’s left.

It was disturbingly easy to take stock of the guild. All of them now fit into a single cavern in the Underground. There were about twenty-five journeymen, thirty initiates, three masters, and the vicar. Florence would guess the Revolvers were at one-fifth of their previous size, maybe even less.

“The Rivets are still working on the Philosopher’s Box. But in the meantime, this will give us a real chance to escape the Underground and fight against the Dragons out in the open.” Gregory was back to showing off the weapon. “In fact, the preliminary work on the gun was done by the Master Rivet who designed the Philosopher’s Box herself.”

As murmurs flew between people assembled in the room, Shannra caught Florence’s eyes. There was no mention of Florence, which she could stomach since she hadn’t done much other than receive the letter; but there was no mention of Master Oliver—which Florence knew would not sit well with Arianna—or the last Vicar Revolver either.

She wanted to ask herself how such a selfish man could have landed as the head of the Revolvers. But then she remembered they hadn’t had many options to choose from. Knowing Gregory, he’d likely strong-armed his way into the position when the rest of the guild was still reeling from grief and terror.