Page 144 of Silvercloak

A warning bell tolled in the back of Saff’s mind. “She had her sights set on the throne?”

His jaw steeled. “Every coup needs an army. The Bloodmoons were hers.”

The conversation she’d overheard between Harrow and Levan came back to her.

“I see a bloody uprising. The head of King Quintan on the Palace steps. Just as the pulps depicted.”

“A Bloodmoon boot at his throat?”

“I don’t know, darling.”

“When is it happening? This bloody uprising? Can you discern a season?”

“Darkest winter, at a guess.”

“How accurate a guess?”

The hope in Levan’s voice … it all made sense. He thought Harrow was confirming Lorissa’s return. No wonder he wanted to knowwhen.No wonder he needled for all the detail he could get.

“And she’ll still want that?” Saff asked. “If you bring her back?”

“She’ll want to resume her coup, yes. Though losing Zares is a blow.” He shifted his weight, and a mattress spring squeaked. “But I’m not angry with you, Silver. What you did in the cell meant a lot.”

“I was hardly doing that to make you feel better,” she laughed, assuming he meant the sex and not the amputation. “I had entirely selfish motivations.”

She tilted her head, and found he was looking at her with a sleepy, reverent gaze. It reminded her of how he looked when they were talking aboutLost Dragonborn—animated, but also at peace.

“You weren’t just tossing a dying man a literal bone?” he asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the slightest dimple forming. The scar through his lower lip seemed less stark than usual, but there was a shaving nick on his cleft chin that he hadn’t bothered to heal. It was surreal to be so close to him. So close she could see every pore on his slightly crooked nose, every hair in his thick brows, the tiny flecks of teal in his eyes.

“I don’t pity you. Not now, not ever.” Saffron traced a fingertip over the back of his golden hand despite herself. She lifted the cuff of his cloak, stroking the ridged scars he’d carved with his own wand. The place where the golden hand met his own arm was seamless, somehow. “Just like I hope you don’t pity me after seeing me branded.”

His eyes fluttered closed, as though the lure of horizontal sleep was too strong to resist. “There are a lot of ways I feel about you, Silver. Pity isn’t one of them.”

Then his hand went slack on her stomach, his lips parted slightly, and his shoulders rose and fell steadily in slumber.

As she lay beside him, the magnitude of her betrayal sat on her chest like a tombstone. She had let him feel safe enough to sleep beside her. She had tilled the tender earth between them, and watched as they had both sown seeds. And she had done this knowing what she would soon do to him.

Sleep did not find her quickly. Instead, she lay with his hand upon her, breathing gently against his palm, gazing at the sharp lines of his face, and slowly, impossibly,terribly,her magical well began to fill. Pleasure not from any physical touch, but from his mere presence, from the merethoughtof him.

Saints,she was in trouble.

They both were.

SAFFRON AWOKE WITH HER HEAD IN THE NOOK BETWEENLevan’s arm and chest, one hand stroking her hair and the other wrapped around her body. It was warm and sweet and terrible, and she wanted to sink into it forever.

She looked up and saw him staring at the ceiling. When he saw she was no longer asleep, he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, but there was pain etched onto his face. The sight of it was a shock. Normally he kept it close to his chest, buried far down inside.

What did it mean that he was letting her catch a glimpse?

“Are you alright?” she asked, her voice pitching with concern.

“Fine. Better for some sleep.”

“You’re lying.”

He grimaced. “Fine. It hurts like all hells. Happy?”

“Ecstatic. Although the thought of your absurd power being amplified by the pain is vaguely terrifying.”

---