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Kell cut her off, taking her face in his stained hands and kissing her once, deeply, desperately. A kiss laced with blood and panic, pain and fear and relief.
“Good,” she answered, pushing open the door. “Only fools are certain.”
The Antari and—no, the two Antari, thought Lenos, for that was what Bard was, that was what she had to be—
“Life isn’t made of choices,” said Holland. “It’s made of trades. Some are good, some are bad, but they all have a cost.”
“What?” she said with a sly grin. “Do I always have to take the lead?” She started to lean in, but he was already there, already kissing her. Their bodies crashed together, the last of the distance disappearing as hips met hips and ribs met ribs and hands searched for skin.
Her hands were bandaged, a deep scratch ran along her jaw, and Rhy watched his brother move toward her as naturally as if the world had simply tipped. For Kell, apparently, it had.
Because caring was a thing with claws. It sank them in, and didn’t let go. Caring hurt more than a knife to the leg, more than a few broken ribs, more than anything that bled or broke and healed again. Caring didn’t break you clean. It was a bone that didn’t set, a cut that wouldn’t close.
“Love and loss,” he said, “are like a ship and the sea. They rise together. The more we love, the more we have to lose. But the only way to avoid loss is to avoid love. And what a sad world that would be.”
“Now tell me, Delilah, how many lives have you ended? Do you know the number?” Lila started to answer, then stopped. The truth—the infuriating, maddening, sickening truth—was that she didn’t.
Her heart was beating hard against her ribs, some primal part of her saying run, and she was running, just not away. She was tired of running away. So she was running into Kell. And he caught her.
People spoke of love as if it were an arrow. A thing that flew quick, and always found its mark. They spoke of it as if it were a pleasant thing, but Maxim had taken an arrow once, and knew it for what it was: excruciating.
“And the prince,” he said proudly, “belongs with his king.”
A myth without a voice is like a dandelion without a breath of wind. No way to spread the seeds.
After all, she’d already taken two Londons as her own. She was a thief, a runaway, a pirate, a magician. She was fierce, and powerful, and terrifying. She was still a mystery. And he loved her.
