I thank her and head toward my room, only to pass it and take the ladder down a level, following a new road east. The stone sits in the empty sword holster on my belt; thinking of it renews my energy. I step out of the way for a few trollis and wait several minutes to use the lift that will take me to Centra housing. When I reach it, another trollis busies himself putting out lights, so I take the lift up to Intra housing instead. Fortunately, at the end of the row of tight-knit apartments is a ladder, and when I take that back down to Azmar’s floor, the way is empty. I hurry to his door and knock softly. Wait, listen. But he doesn’t come to the door.
The lift starts moving at the far end of the corridor. Not wanting to be seen, I try the handle—unlocked—and slip inside.
A small candle twinkles, but the wick is almost drowning in its own wax. Candles are costly, even to high castes, and it’s unlike Azmar to leave one unattended. I quickly open drawers and cupboards until I find another and light it. Azmar’s shift should have ended an hour ago. He would be home, unless he had errands, or went to make amends with his sister. But without a note of some sort, I’m not sure when he’ll want to meet me. It wouldn’t be safe for him to be seen escorting me across the city again—
The door bursts open, and I choke on a shriek, my instinct to be quiet, not to let any trollis know I’m here, kicking in at the last second. After whirring around, I’m relieved to see Azmar, yet taken aback by the panic written over his features.
Have we been discovered?
But no—Azmar slams the door shut behind him and crosses to me in two strides. His arms swoop around me with nearly unbearable pressure. His breath puffs hot in my hair.
“Gods help me, Lark.” He holds me a beat longer before releasing me and searching my face. “Kesta told me.”
“Spreener. But I’m fine.”
His body brims with tension, brows drawn tight. He runs his hands down my arms, eyes raking my body, pausing on a bandage around my hand. He grasps it, his delicate touch a stark contrast to his crushing embrace.
I pull the hand free and flex it. “Only scrapes,” I assure him, warmed by his concern. I trace one of the nubs on his jaw. “Only scrapes,” I repeat, a whisper. “And you wasted a candle.”
A great breath flows out of him. “Only scrapes,” he manages, and his brows relax.
I frown. “Please don’t tell me you ran around the city in a panic.”
He glowers. “I masked it well.”
“Did you?”
He shakes his head, not enthralled with the direction of the conversation. Instead of lecturing me on the importance of harnesses or pressing further about my welfare, he asks, “Have you eaten?”
I shake my head.
He composes himself, and his gaze drops to my clothing. His lip quirks, and I know the fear has abated. “You look like a trollis in that.”
I glance down at my vest and weapons belt. “As close as I’ll get, I suppose.”
He takes up the end of my braid and curls it around his hand. His gaze travels to my bandaged palm. I turn my hand to clasp his fingers, slipping by him to bolt the door. I know how easy it can be to eavesdrop through those things. I take him to the opposite wall, before releasing him and rummaging through my belt.
“I know it’s not the same.” I feel a little silly now, but I’ve already started, and it’s really the gesture that counts. I pull the stone from my belt. Its bluish hue glimmers in the firelight, not nearly as smooth or multifaceted as Azmar’s, but it’s the best I can do. “This broke off during the attack, and, well, it’s what I have to give.” Taking his hand, I press it into his palm. “So we’ll pretend it’s something lovely.”
I don’t need to explain what I mean. The way Azmar turns the stone over, so reverently, I know he knows.
I should ask how his day went, if he’s eaten, what he’s thinking, but I don’t, because after hanging over death by the strength of a few fingers today, I understand so much more the life I want. The person I want.
I slide my hands around his waist, letting my thumbs dip beneath the hem of his shirt. The touch of his firm skin sends feathers of heat up my arms. Looking into his eyes, I whisper, “I’m not hungry.”
His free hand wraps behind my head, fingers burrowing into my hair. I rise onto my toes to kiss him, hearing a soft tap as he gently sets my stone on the mantel. I relearn his mouth, tasting it inside and out, pressing onto the tips of my shoes to get closer to him. He’s so damnably tall—