What a ridiculous question. Renata knocked back the dough she’d set out to rise the night before, kneading it a touch more before she began to shape the loaf. In the chilly air, it took a full day to bake her mother’s honeyed bread, but it was the only thing to do at Midwinter. She’d already chopped the dried fruit and nuts she’d sprinkle on top. She split the dough into three ropes, sprinkled more cinnamon, then began to braid.
Home is what we could have together, but you’re too afraid to build it.
She ignored the longing that twisted in her chest and thought about how she could get Maxim out of the house. Would it be too cold for him to sleep in the dairy barn? Probably. She didn’t have any fuel for the heaters out there. Conserving heat in a limited space was the only way she managed to survive on her own during the weeks around Midwinter. She had fuel and food, but only for herself. She would need to go hunting.
Or you could kick him out.
Impossible. Her traitor heart rebelled at the thought. Her traitor heart was the one who’d led her down the stairs the night before, longing for the comfort of Max’s arms. Her traitor heart would give the man everything if she let it.
She finished the loaf and put it in a long proofing basket. It would be ready to bake that night. Ready to eat in the days leading up to Midwinter.
Midwinter.
The night she’d finally lost everything.
Renata closed her eyes and clutched the edge of the counter. Why had he come? Hadn’t she hurt him enough? It was only going to get worse. She was weak and he knew it. If he pushed hard enough, she’d give him everything. Again.
And then what?
Force him to live a half-life with a broken mate? Unacceptable. Force her back into a world where all the rules she’d known were upended?
Renata was still coming to terms with the new order in the Irin world. Grigori—once their hated foes—had now proven that not all of them were murderous monsters. The Grigori Max had met so many years ago in Prague hadn’t been lying. Some Grigori even had sisters to protect, half-angelic daughters tormented by humanity’s soul voices because they had no control over their magic.
It wasn’t that she was unsympathetic. She had plenty of sympathy. For the women.
For the Grigori? How was she supposed to quash her instinctive, murderous impulses when she smelled the scent of sandalwood? Would their unnatural beauty ever cause her anything but cold rage? The scraping sound of their soul voices made her nauseous.
It might have been the mandate of the council that free Grigori who were living peaceful lives could be Irin allies, but no one had asked the Irina who survived their murderous rampage, had they? Was she supposed to forget two hundred years of training and go back to singing songs?
She wasn’t the woman she’d been. She never would be again. That girl had died with Balien. Maybe now that Max had found this haven and taken away her last hiding place, she would have to move on. Maybe it was better that she lose this sanctuary.
You keep looking for the same feeling you lost, but you won’t find it because it was never the building.
He was right. Max was right. She simply didn’t know where else to go.
Renata wiped her eyes and walked to the cold storage. There was cured sausage and cheese to eat, along with a loaf of bread she’d cooked yesterday. She’d eat a little bit and set out the rest for Max when he returned from exploring the caves. He was a curious man—it was one of the things she loved about him—and Renata suspected he could spend days just reading the spells along the walls. She didn’t need to read them. She’d spent two hundred years reading them and hoping they’d give her peace. They hadn’t. She doubted she’d ever find peace again.
* * *
Max returnedfrom the caves while she was reading a book by the fire.
“There is food set out in the kitchen,” she said quietly, not looking up.
“Thank you.” He didn’t go to the kitchen. He crossed the living room and sprawled on the couch, forcing his head into her lap. “That library must have been remarkable.”
She put her book down, knowing he took pleasure in distracting her. “It was.”
“Has no one come back in over two hundred years? No one even came looking for the scrolls?”
“Maybe.” She combed her fingers through Max’s thick blond hair. It was wavy—almost curly—and shone gold in the firelight. “I didn’t return to this place for over one hundred years. Someone might have been back before that, but they would have seen everything gone.”
“Not everything.” He grabbed her hand. Kissed her palm. “I can still feel so much joy in that place. The magic in the walls is still vibrant.”
Renata closed her hand, curling her fingers into her palm. “I only feel pain. Loss.”
“There are both. Pain and joy. That is life. There’s something in the tunnels I want you to—”
“Don’t make me go back there.” She sighed. “Max, I know I can’t get rid of you, but can you just…”