“I’m surprised that mattered to you.”
His head tilted slightly—so, so slightly, like it wasn’t even intentional—as if to resist the urge to bury it in my hair.
He didn’t answer for so long that I thought perhaps he wouldn’t. And maybe I was grateful for that, because no matter how much I told myself that I was getting close to him because it was my task, I knew whatever he would say would cut too deep.
I was right.
“It matters,” he murmured.
Two words that could mean nothing—should mean nothing.
It felt like they meant everything.
“Your brother will be safe here,” he went on, “for as long as he needs.”
My chest clenched. I was grateful for the hair curtaining my face. But then gentle fingers pulled it back, placing it carefully behind my ear, the brush of his fingernails against my cheek striking me breathless.
“Thank you,” I choked out.
I wasn’t acting.
Others would tell me that Naro would die of his addiction or its withdrawal. Others would imprison or execute him as a war criminal. I couldn’t blame anyone for either of those things—certainly not Atrius, the monster, the cursed vampire, the conqueror.
And yet. Here I was, being presented with this gift. Compassion.
“Why?” I asked. “Why are you helping him?”
An aching pulse, like the throb of an old wound. “Because we lose the past so fast. We should cling to those who made us who we are. And because, if the one I considered my brother was alive, I would want someone to do the same for him.”
Brother.
I thought of a body in the snow at the feet of a furious goddess, a wave of grief, and a hole that would never be filled again.
So many things about Atrius almost made so much sense. Almost. Like I was missing a critical puzzle piece.
I whispered, before I could stop myself, “Why do you want to conquer Glaea?”
A beat. Then, “Because I’m an evil, power-starved monster.”
He said it so flatly, like it was an actual answer. Not long ago, I thought that was the truth, and would have told him as much.
But now…
Atrius could be monstrous, perhaps. But he was not Tarkan. He was not Aaves. He certainly was not the Pythora King.
Now it was my turn to expose him, to force him to let me see what he would prefer to hide. I touched his chin and tilted it toward me. When his eyes flicked to me, they remained there—like he could see right through my blindfold, to the broken eyes beneath it.
I murmured, “I don’t believe you. I want the truth.”
This was what I had been sent here for. Truth.
I told myself all of this, far in the back of my mind, as if there was not a part of me that wanted his truth for more complicated reasons.
He flinched, the faintest twitch of muscles across his face.
“I can’t give you that.”
“Because your people need a new home.”
A pained hint of a smile. “If only it was that simple.”
My palm was still pressed to his chest, over the loose cotton fabric of his shirt. Slowly, I slid my hand up, inside his shirt—finding bare skin.
He stiffened, but didn’t stop me. Nor did he move. He barely breathed.
Deep inside him, the curse burned and ached.
“The past is devouring you.”
He let out an almost-laugh. “So bold of you, to talk to me that way.” Rough, scarred fingertips touched my face, the contrast between his skin and the touch so stark it made my heart stutter. His gaze lowered, lingering on my mouth.
“Do you think I don’t see,” he said, voice low, “that the past is devouring you, too?”
I knew that a wounded soul craved another to mirror theirs.
That was all this was.
But my soul was hurting, too. And perhaps I, too, craved someone who understood that.
I didn’t move my hand from Atrius’s bare chest. Nor did I move when his hand slowly flattened against my cheek, fingers tangling in my hair, cradling my face.
And when he came closer, closer until his breath mingled with mine, I let him.
Even when the space between us disappeared entirely.
His mouth was soft. Almost shy, at first. And when my lips parted against his, a little ragged breath escaping, he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue, soft and damp, sliding against mine, releasing his own shuddering exhale.
Gods.
He was alive, and broken, and familiar, and mysterious, and dangerous, and safe. And for one terrible moment, I wanted so fiercely, I forgot everything else. My hand slid against the topography of muscles in his bare chest, running down over his abdomen and settling at his side. His grip tightened in my hair, pulling me, and gods, I let him—let him urge me closer, let his tongue roll deeper into my mouth, let myself open up to him. My other hand found his cheek, his hair, running through the smooth tendrils and resisting the overpowering urge to grab it and pull him closer.