Page 28 of Court of Wolves

The sofa needed restuffing or replacing entirely, the chairs were kept together with bits of twine and hope, and the rug on the floor was worn thin in well-tread places, and Isak surprised himself bylovingit. This was a small, shitty house, but it smelled of drying lavender and the honey biscuits Sunisida—Anzhelika’s wife and mate—had made when she learned they’d have a guest. That scent soaked into his lungs and eased a knot he’d carried between his shoulder blades since the saints' circle. Isak didn’t even remember the last time he’d been in a proper home. The manor he’d been raised to serve didn’t count. Nothing with a gilded chamber pot could be called a home.

With a groan, he adjusted himself on the small sofa again, a spring stabbing into a sore spot on his back. Even that was agift, his irritation an equal blessing. He was free, and had new friends who seemed decent enough, and a roof over his head. His stomach was full of spicy meat, red sausage, pumpkin bread, and homemade biscuits. He wasn’t being tortured by fucked-in-the-head enforcers for their saints.

For the first time in weeks, Isak could relax, and his mind took full advantage of that to attack him. He’d been a fucking dick to his brother, had looked down on him, as ifhewas any better. He’d been a dick to every one of them, especially to Maia, even if the fae princess gave as good as she got. Some of the things he’d said to them, and histone… He turned over again with a sigh, gritting his teeth at a sharp twinge that shot up his leg. He was lucky to still have the damn leg.

Could you shut the fuck up?Viskae demanded.Even saints want to rest.

If you want rest, you’ll have to knock me out,Isak replied, rubbing his eyes. He was exhausted. His body was drained and long overdue unconsciousness, but his mind would not stop throwing thoughts at him, one after the other.

The island, the people he’d delivered to their slaughter, thosethingsin the water, the orders handed down by his superiors. Everything that happened after, when he tried to run from the monsters. When he failed. Isak sometimes thought it would have been better to be ripped open and left to die by those things. Instead, he’d been chosen, saved, cut apart, put back together again, and twisted into what he’d become. Not that anyone knew that, of course. Only him and the saint who’d saved him.

Just tell me if they’re doing the same to my brother. I can handle it.

I know as much as you do.

“You’re a fucking saint,” he snapped, teeth gnashing.

A saint who knows as much as you about what has become of your brother, your mate, and their friends.

Isak massaged the dry itch in the corner of his eye, wondering if his new friends would mind if he helped himself to their booze cabinet. He couldn’t stop seeing the look on Jaro’s face when Isak called his name for the first time in seven years. He couldn’t stop hearing Maia’s snarling voice when she broke into his room and laid into him so thoroughly that guilt still ate at his insides.

And after all that, he laid in the muck and let them be taken.

They will survive.

You don’t know that,he argued, but all his energy had fled. Instead of snarling, he just sounded tired.

They will survive. Saints do not choose weak stock, and you and I made it to Saintsgarde. The answer to freeing them, to blasting those wicked bastard saints from the face of the earth is within our reach.

Cool. Where is it?

Tomorrow, you shall begin the search.

She didn’t know. What fucking use was having a saint twittering in his ear when she was as useless as he was? Isak knew they were looking for a box, that it was made of solid gold, and would likely be so full of power that it set his teeth on edge—his superiors wouldn’t have given a shit about it unless it was deadly—but it could be anywhere.

Do you even know it’s in Saintsgarde, or is this all one big bullshit guess?

There is… something here. It calls to me.

If you’re wrong, I’ll stab myself in the head just to reach you,he grumbled, turning onto his side and pulling up the blanket Sunny had draped over him until it covered his eyes. He’d never been able to sleep by counting sheep or recalling good memories, so he fell into a daydream.

Isak imagined he’d succeeded in convincing Jaro and Maia to stay away from the island, imagined they’d stayed in Eosanthaand helped him renovate the apothecary. He imagined the shop was a resounding success and they bought the building next door and knocked the top floor through, so everyone had rooms. So Jaro was just next door and Maia was close. He imagined sitting at a table to eat breakfast with a family, imagined watching Maia flirt with her men and bicker with Isak, imagined the hatred in her pretty gold eyes turning to desire when she looked at him.

He imagined he and his mate slept curled up like a pile of puppies in a cold, dreary stone room in serious need of some soft furnishings. The room smelled of sharp, acrid magic and mould, and it was bare of everything except a scowling, bald man with tanned skin, dirty leather armour, and a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. Ah, Bryon. Isak had forgotten his particular charms.

“This is a shit fantasy,” Isak huffed, and the sleeping beauty at his side startled, her moon-silver hair whipping his face as she spun to stare at him. “Damn, dove, whipping is not my kink, and definitely not to the face.”

Maia flinched hard, and Isak went very, very still. “Don’t call me that.”

“Got it. What should I call you instead?” He kept his voice light. Forced it light.

“My name?” she suggested so dryly her voice was a desert.

Isak smirked, and completely ignored the fact this wasn’t his fantasy, his apothecary, or anywhere he’d ever seen before. It was also a much clearer image than his usual fantasies, so he was obviously dreaming. “You want me to call you Maia? How dull.”

“It’s a prettier name thanIsak,”she replied with her usual bite.

“Strangely,” he said with a wistful sigh, “I missed this.”

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