Page 65 of Tusk Love

“Miss Guinevere?” The Opal of the Ocean squinted at her through curls of smoke emanating from a slim cigar that was pressed between her fingers. “Whatever is the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Guinevere wordlessly pointed to the corpse. The Opal gasped, dropping her cigar, and Guinevere reached out to clutch her arm. “We must get indoors,” she said.

But the Opal stayed where she was, resisting Guinevere’s tugs. “I have another destination in mind,” she said cheerfully.

Guinevere opened her mouth to ask what she meant by that. And that was when she caught the faintest trace of it, on the Opal’s breath—the smell of peppermint and buttercups. The smell Guinevere had first encountered wafting from a cauldron behind an alchemist’s stall in Druvenlode.

As soon as she noticed it, the disguise potion wore off. Mia Lavera’s horns disappeared, her dark hair straightening and her ruby-red skin turning seafoam green. The rounded shape of her eyes shifted into the taper of willow leaves, their irises morphing from silver-black to emerald. All of a sudden, Guinevere was looking not at the Opal of the Ocean, but at the uniya mercenary named Selene.

Selene’s arm arced through the air, a dagger flashing in the moonlight. Guinevere felt a burst of pain as the pommel collided with the back of her skull, and then—

Nothing.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Oskar

Oskar spent the first several seconds after Guinevere walked out of his life wondering if it was possible to beat oneself to death.

How he wished he could run after her and beg for forgiveness. Tell her that he hadn’t meant any of it, that she was the best thing to ever happen to him.

But he couldn’t, because if she threw her lot in with his sorry own, it would be theworstthing to ever happen toher.

It was better that she hate him. With each harsh word dredged up from some dark part of him that was as unexpectedly cruel as it was desperate, he had been saving her from years of drudgery by his side, from what was certain to be the regret that would consume her. It had been difficult,torturous,yet somehow also so very easy, his resigned heart rising to the task with determination. He would do anything for her—even sever all that was sweet and good between them.

But, gods…he’d made her cry. Every tear had been a knife raked across his gut. That little flinch of hers—it would haunt him for therest of his days. And the way she’d apologized, because he’d made her believe it was her fault, because he was scum, like her parents—

Oskar kicked his rucksack. It went flying across the stable, startling the horses.

“Oh, shut up,” he growled over the cacophony of disgruntled snorts and pointedly stomped hooves.

The animals fell silent, terrified.

Great. As though he neededmorereasons to feel guilty.

Oskar dug the back of his hand into his eyes, a futile bid to stem the abrupt sting of tears welling up. He couldn’t help but recall the last time he’d allowed himself to cry—in Guinevere’s arms, his battered heart turning over with the bittersweet realization that tears were no source of shame. Tears meant that you had lived in the world, that you had been a part of it. Tears meant that you had loved someone.

Tears could even be a victory in their own way, a sign that you hadn’t let all the daily struggles—the myriad little uncaring cruelties—get the best of you.

Life could be hard, buthedidn’t have to be. His mother had taught him that. Yet he’d driven Guinevere off with a callousness drawn from years of unending toil.

Ma,Oskar heard himself think,I fucked up.

He missed Idun more than ever. It was the memory of her that finally made his hand fall back to his side. That finally let the tears stream freely from his eyes. He would cry in secret for Guinevere; she deserved that much from him, just like his mother had. The two women he’d loved and lost.

Sniffling, Oskar went over to the rucksack. He’d pick it up and be on his way, and Guinevere would go on to live her perfect life and give Wensleydale his perfect blond heirs, and soon Oskar would be a mere footnote in her history. Just something that had happened to her on the Amber Road. It was as it should be.

The rucksack had landed on its side, its top flap loose. He crouched down and shoved the spilled contents back into place. His fingers closed around a length of leather, yanking it free from the tangle of his clothes.

And he stared at the Vigilance Stone dangling from his hand, glowing a bright, pale blue.

Evil intentions.

No more than thirty feet away.

Guinevere hadjustgone outside—

Panic roared within him. He was charging out of the stables before he knew it, running as fast as he could, but, in his state of mind, he felt as though he were running through treacle.Don’t let me be too late,he prayed to every god he knew.Please, don’t let me be too late.

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