The Sharpest Blade
Page 29

Glazunov doesn’t answer, but he goes still, indicating he does understand.
Aren steps out of the cell and closes the door. He stands there looking at me as the guard locks it. He’s tense—I’m not sure he knows what to say—and that’s when I suddenly become aware I haven’t showered in almost two days, and I’m wearing the same clothes I walked across the Realm in.
Well, isn’t this an awesome way to show him what he’s trying to push away.
He comes to some decision, and tension whooshes out of him in an almost visible cloud.
“That ended up being a surprisingly effective coercion technique,” he says.
His tone is light, and his movement as we walk down the row of cells is easy, languid. He’s always hid his troubles behind his devil-may-care smiles and his nonchalance, but I know him well enough to see through the façade now. He’s uncomfortable around me.
I tilt my head to the side. “You are very good at seducing people to your way of thinking.”
He laughs. “Too bad it doesn’t work on high nobles and elari.”
“You didn’t get anything else out of the fae captured in Tholm?”
“No,” he says. When his smile fades, I hate myself for asking the question. “We’ve captured other elari in the past few weeks. The false-blood doesn’t trust easily. None of them have known his name let alone his location.” A guard opens the door at the end of the corridor, and we leave the quiet cells behind us. “What made you think the vigilantes were selling the serum?”
“Nothing really,” I say. “It just bothered me that the elari knew a serum existed. I couldn’t get it off my mind and . . . Well, this doesn’t exactly disprove that Caelar is working with the false-blood, but the elari could have stumbled across the information somewhere else. Lorn, maybe.”
“Hmm,” Aren says. I’ve never heard a hmm so devoid of inflection.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I step in front of him, blocking his path. He manages to stop before he touches me. He even takes a step back, putting more distance between us so that we don’t accidentally come in contact.
“Lena sent you down here, didn’t she?” I ask. Then, realizing how stupid the question is, I say, “Don’t answer that. Of course she did. You wouldn’t have come knowing I was there unless you were forced to.”
“I passed her in the hall,” he says, confirming my words. “Hison wanted to meet with her.”
“Hison.” His name puts a bad taste in my mouth. “You’re running errands for him now?”
Aren stiffens. “No.”
“What’s going on with him?” I ask.
“It’s nothing.” He steps around me.
“Then why are you talking to him so much?” I demand, turning. “Is he blackmailing you?”
“I said it’s nothing,” he fires over his shoulder.
“That’s bullshit, Aren.” I grab his arm, and he spins so quickly I stagger back a half step.
“Here.” He slaps something into my palm. “I came to give you that.”
I look down. And stop breathing. It’s Kyol’s name-cord. He gave it to me years ago. I kept it in a jewelry box in my old apartment, and the last time I was there, I slid it into my pocket, intending to give it back to him. But the remnants came after me. We were trying to figure out who they were and what had happened to Paige, then I fell through the ice in Rhigh, trying to get to the city’s gate. That’s the last time I had the name-cord. Aren saved me. He brought me back to the palace.
And stripped me out of my wet clothes. He must have found it then.
“You’ve had it all this time?” I look up, suddenly angry. “Were you waiting for the right moment to throw it in my face?”
“If I wasn’t here, you’d be with him,” he says. The words sound more like a question than an accusation, but I take them as the latter.
“No, I wouldn’t,” I say, taking a step toward him. “If you weren’t here, I’d be dead. If you weren’t here, I’d still be blind and working for a king who cared only about staying in power. Years would pass, and Kyol would keep pushing me aside anytime our ‘relationship’ became too real for him.”
“But if I died—”
“I still”—I emphasize the word with a fist to his chest—“wouldn’t be with him. I can’t. I would always wonder if the life-bond manipulated my feelings for him.”
He catches my hand against his chest. Kyol’s name-cord digs into my palm.
“But if you weren’t so stubborn,” he says softly, “you could make it work. Even with the life-bond.”
“I want to make it work with you,” I tell him. “Even with the life-bond.”
“McKenzie.” The word sounds more like a sigh than my name. I lift my free hand to the side of his face.
“I love you,” I say. Then I slide my hand behind his neck and feel his resistance melt away.
He initiates the kiss, bending down to slant his mouth across mine. I’m addicted to his scent and his touch, to the way his arms encircle me, pulling me against him, but mostly, I’m just addicted to him. He’s a light in all this darkness. He’s strong and caring, and he’s sacrificed so much for Lena and the Realm. He makes me happy, and I want so much to make him happy, too.
His tongue flicks across mine, and I draw him closer.
“McKenzie,” he murmurs as he trails kisses along my jaw. When he nips my ear, lightning explodes through me, sending tendrils of pleasure through my scalp and down my neck. I stuff the name-cord into my pocket, then trail my hands up his chest. He’s not wearing jaedric. His muscles are firm and chiseled beneath my palms.
“I want you,” I whisper, and he murmurs something indecipherable into my ear.
Chaos lusters flash across my skin. They’re becoming so frenzied, they’re skipping to his mouth and hands, anywhere and everywhere our bodies touch.
I tug on Aren’s arm to pull him . . . I don’t know where. I draw in a breath, trying to figure out where we are, trying to think. Trying not to think. The corridor we’re in is empty. It might not stay that way for long. Someone could interrupt us any second.
“Aren.” I tug again.
He’s not budging. His hands are locked on my arms, holding me in place as he takes my mouth again, and that’s when I realize something’s . . . not wrong, exactly. It’s just not completely right.
It takes another long, languorous kiss to identify the problem. Aren’s not completely into this. Oh, he’s kissing me. He’s kissing me, and I’m kissing him, and it’s hot and delicious, but he’s holding back, not willing to cross the line with me.
I want to eradicate that line. I want to obliterate it, rip it into pieces, then burn all the frayed ends to ash. This is the same damn line I’ve treaded for a decade.
My hands move back to Aren’s chest, not to admire his body, but to push him away. When I manage to get a few inches of space between us, I say, “I don’t want your half-assed kisses.”
He looks completely disoriented for a moment. He leans back toward me, almost as if he’s starved for me, but then, after a slow, deep breath, he seems to pull himself together again.