Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)(126)

Iris halted. Her blood went cold as she turned on her heel. “Who is about to kill him?”

The associate stepped closer. “The Graveyard. He was captured among Dacre’s soldiers, and they are taking no prisoners. I couldn’t convince my comrades to let him go. They want proof of his innocence. Do you have anything? Anything at all that could keep him alive?”

Iris’s thoughts reeled at this revelation, but she bit her tongue, focusing. She had all his letters that he had written to her from Dacre’s side. She still had the Hawk Shire letter, even though Roman had once beseeched her to burn my words.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I have a letter. In my flat, if it survived.”

Mr. Kitt’s associate broke into motion, taking her hand and pulling her through the rubble. He was strong, kicking debris out of their way, cutting through the remains of a collapsed house to get them to their destination faster. Iris didn’t know if she should be thankful or afraid that this man knew exactly where she lived, but when they finally reached her street, every thought and feeling melted away.

Her apartment building still stood.

She dashed tears from her eyes as she raced up the stairs. The front door hung open; it was dark inside, the electricity still out.

“Forest?” she cried, ragged. But there was no sign of her brother. Only Val’s dead body lay on the living room floor, and she leapt over the corpse to rush into her room.

Mr. Kitt’s associate lingered just outside the door, but she could hear his labored breaths.

“Hurry, Miss Winnow,” he said.

She fell to her knees and reached beneath her bed, yanking the hat box out from the shadows. She threw off the lid and began to sort through all the letters, her hands shaking. But there it was, creased and smudged, but very much legible.

Burn my words.

“I have it,” she said.



* * *



Roman thought he was dreaming when he saw Iris in the crowd.

His hands were bound, and he stood against a brick wall. He was in a line with fifty-one other soldiers; prisoners of war who the Graveyard was about to execute without trial.

Beyond the firing line, a group of onlookers had gathered. Some were cheering, others looked troubled. Roman felt dizzy, overcome by the jeers, the noise, the sight of people pleased to see his death.

His knees trembled.

He thought he was about to faint until he saw her. Iris was pushing her way to the front. Her face was scratched and smeared with dirt, speckled with luminous gold. She was holding up a piece of paper and shouting but her voice was lost amongst the roar.

That was when her eyes locked with Roman’s.

“Ready?” a voice called.

The line of rifles lowered.

Roman couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop Iris from moving forward. He couldn’t stop her from coming between him and the bullet.

“Iris,” he pleaded, but only he could hear her name. A whisper in the chaos. “Iris, no.”

She moved through the crowd like the world would bend to her. Her gaze remained fastened to his as if nothing could come between them. No gods or war. Not even the sting of a mortal wound.

“Aim!”

Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, until our bones return to dust.

A sob broke his breath.

Even then, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.

Iris passed the firing line, hair tangling across her face, her boots pounding over the blood-soaked cobblestones.

“Fire!”

She came between Roman and the rifle just as gunshots cracked through the air.





{52}

What Could Have Been




Iris froze.

She was aware of only three things.

The high-pitched whine of bullets.

The way the soldiers in the lineup jerked and fell forward, crumpling face down on the bloody cobblestones.

And the way Roman stood and breathed, untouched by the gunfire. How he looked at her.

His eyes were wide, frantic. They burned with horror as he waited to see the blood bloom across her shirt and spill down her chest. For her to collapse with the others.

But Iris remained standing. Her lungs continued to fill with air; her heart continued to pump furiously within her.

She turned to stare at the man who had been prepared to shoot Roman. His face was concealed by a mask, and he still held the rifle, pointing it at her. But he had never shot.

“Get out of the way, miss!” he shouted.

“Put the gun down,” she said. Her legs were shaking from the run; sweat trickled through her hair. She was so relieved she had made it in time that she had to swallow down the acid in her throat. “You are about to shoot an innocent man.”

“These soldiers are not innocent.”

“I have proof.” Iris held up the letter. “Roman Kitt is the only reason why so many of Enva’s forces survived. He was secretly giving away Dacre’s plans and movements for weeks now. If not for him, none of us would be standing here, breathing, so I will tell you one more time. You have committed a terrible war crime by shooting these soldiers without a trial. And you need to lower your gun.”

The silence that followed was uncomfortable, weighed by shock. A tall man in a mask stepped forward to meet her. Only then was the last rifle lowered, and she sensed he must be important in some way to the Graveyard. Perhaps their leader.