But I wanted to shout at her, You don’t understand! You already have a family. And you aren’t just giving up your eyes. You’re giving up the sea.
But I could not shout with no voice. The Sightmother took my young self by the hand and let her into the Salt Keep. I could not call for her. I could not follow. I had given the Weaver my body, and my voice, and now I had nothing left.
The first thing I became aware of when I awoke was Atrius’s breath, deep and steady. His scent and his presence surrounded me—the latter quieter, softer, than usual. I still wore his shirt, stained with the scent of him and the sea. His body curled around mine, arms loosely encircling me, face pressed to my hair.
It took several long seconds for what had happened last night to sink in. The memories, each more intimate than the last, hit me piece by piece—the kiss, my ripped nightgown… Weaver, his mouth…
A flush found my skin. As if to check whether it had all been real, my fingers slipped down to my bare legs—pausing at the two small wounds on my inner thigh, now scabbing over.
And if there was any doubt of the rest of it… well, the soreness between my legs put that to rest.
A smile flitted over my lips.
And then, just as quickly, it faded.
I had fucked him. The man I had been tasked to kill.
I had broken my vows to the Arachessen. Broken my vows to Acaeja herself.
I thought I had been making that decision clear-headed last night. But now, all at once, a violent burst of guilt twisted in my stomach. Not rational guilt, not logical guilt—this was the delirious guilt of a child, terrified of a parent’s wrath.
I carefully extracted myself from Atrius’s embrace, careful not to wake him. My pack from the trip to the island was here, tucked away in the corner with Atrius’s things. The sight of it there, so easily accommodated into his life, made a lump rise in my throat.
I was sure the island had been scattered with the belongings of the people who had lived there or the warriors who had been attacked there. All had likely been gathered and sorted by Atrius’s soldiers.
But not mine.
Atrius carried mine himself, just as he had carried me, even when his people were dying.
It wasn’t until this exact moment that I realized: as far as Atrius was concerned, I was one of his people.
I pulled the bag free and opened it. The clothes inside were wrinkled and reeking of sea salt. They, and the canvas of the bag itself, were dotted with browning spatters of blood. Mine, of course—too red to be vampire blood.
The dagger was right on top.
I unsheathed it. It was now sunset, light seeping through the canvas of the tent. Pangs of it glistened on the cold steel. Still unremarkable in appearance, of course, but just holding the weapon in my hands, I could feel the magic forged into it. Powerful.
My awareness fell behind me, to Atrius’s sleeping form. In my absence, he had curled up a bit more, his face pressed to the pillow. His presence was soft like this, the hard edges of his pain and determination sanded away. He seemed almost childlike.
If the Sightmother was here now, she would command me to kill him.
I couldn’t pretend that wasn’t the case. That this was exactly what she had imagined when she gave the order. And if I did it, I would be welcomed back to the Salt Keep with open arms. No one would ask about my virginity, and even if they knew, they would pretend they didn’t. Many Arachessen slept with their targets. Hell, even if I hadn’t, many would assume that I did.
In the scheme of the greater will of the Weaver, there wasn’t a soul who wouldn’t look away, as long as they thought I did what I did solely out of devotion to my mission.
A version of myself from four months ago would have seen this as such a clear-cut decision: This is the moment. Take it.
I saw it as a clear-cut decision now, too.
Because there was no part of me, not even the part steeped in guilt, not even the little girl who thought she owed her entire life to Acaeja and to the Arachessen, that even considered killing Atrius in this moment.
I could not do it.
I would not do it.
I sheathed the dagger.
Atrius’s eyes opened. He never woke up slowly or groggily. He was always simply awake, immediately. Today was no exception, and when those eyes snapped open, they fell to me as instantly as if it was nothing less than instinct.
My heart twisted, a sensation that was one part pleasant, one part painful.
He didn’t say anything, but reached out his hand—a silent beckoning.
Another twinge in my chest.
I crawled back to the bedroll and sat cross-legged beside it. His hand fell to my thigh, fingers brushing the wound he’d left. He lingered there for a moment, like he too was reliving pieces of the night before.