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Glancing down to the box, Rune freed the ribbon, lifted the lid, and pushed back the brown paper inside. A bouquet of silk buttercups sprung from the packaging. Her pulse hummed in her throat as she reached to pick them up. The flowers were simpler than the rose he’d given her at her after-party, but ten times as plentiful. Rune held the bouquet in her hands, stroking the tiny petals made of buttery silk, tracing the fine stitches. He made these.
“You’re about to murder the girl I love. Don’t you see how messed up that is?” Gideon’s hands fisted. “She’s a witch, Alex.” His voice was as cold as the gray sky overhead. “Sympathizing with them is an offense punishable by death.” Alex lifted his chin, defiant. “Arrest me, then.”
Alex stared at her. “I’m sorry, Rune, if you think I’m going to stand here quietly and watch you die, you’re an idiot.” Turning his back on both his fiancée and his brother, he addressed the bloodthirsty crowd. “I helped her steal witches from my brother’s prison cells! I helped smuggle criminals off this godforsaken island! I’m guilty!” His eyes flashed as he turned back to Gideon. “Now arrest me.”
Their gazes caught across the heads of the Blood Guard soldiers between them. “You should have renounced me,” she told him as Laila grabbed her arms and dragged her down from the horse. “You could have saved yourself.” “You can’t renounce your own heart,” said Alex, stepping toward her, eyes brimming with emotion. He lowered his head, pressing his cheek to her temple.
Except even here, at the end, her hate failed her. Rune knew what witches had done to his family. She knew the horrors he’d suffered at a witch queen’s hands. Rune, like a certain witch before her, had toyed with Gideon. Deceived and betrayed him. He had every reason to believe that all witches were the same: horribly cruel and unspeakably evil. So how could she hate him? Especially with his hand pressed to the small of her back. Even in his anger, he was tender with her. Stoic Gideon—so firm in his conviction, so diligent in his duty—was reluctant. Conflicted. She felt it in the gentle press
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As more screams joined the first, Seraphine flew to the wooden rail at the edge of the platform, leaning as far as the chains around her ankles would let her. Rune was about to push herself to her feet, when her stomach cramped. Like a warm, achy swell in her lower belly. That ache. She spent the better part of every month waiting for it. As something warm and wet pooled between her thighs, a rush of relief came over Rune. Her monthly cycle had started. Fresh blood to cast with …
“Who are they?” “Witches,” said Seraphine. Rune’s heart skipped at that word. She squinted harder, realizing she recognized some of the girls beneath the hoods. Witches she’d rescued from Gideon’s clutches. Most she didn’t know at all. But leading them was a girl she knew by heart. Verity de Wilde. Her spectacles flashed when the lightning flickered, and her brown ringlets were loose around her shoulders. In her hand was a knife Rune had never seen before. One shaped like a crescent. “Cressida Roseblood is alive …” Seraphine’s eyes narrowed. “… and has somehow gained a witch army.” “That’s not
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“I’m sorry,” said Seraphine. “But your friend Verity doesn’t exist. Or if she did, she doesn’t anymore.” “Are you saying Cressida killed Verity and stole her identity?” “It’s very likely, yes.” “But that means …” Cressida Roseblood, not Verity de Wilde, had been Rune’s closest confidant for two years—without her knowing. This whole time, Rune had trusted and confided in a murderer. In the girl who’d tortured Gideon and killed his little sister.
Rune had to remind herself, every time, that they were mortal enemies. That their hatred for each other was what wove them together—not love or affection. And this was why it felt so wrong to have an ocean between them: the Blood Guard captain had been hunting the Crimson Moth for so long, she felt lost without him trailing her.
