Vesper braced his hands on the table and squeezed his eyes shut to try and get some godsdamn sense into his brain. She just needed time to calm down. Space would be good. For both of them. He could talk to her tomorrow.
But he found himself pacing, wringing his tunic in his hands, utterly restless. Because there was only one person he wanted to talk to about this. Maybe to give him shit, to get her advice, or—
Ah, fuck.
He tugged on his tunic, sucked in a cleansing breath, and his feet carried him down the makeshift road to his only desired destination.
As his knuckles wrapped against the wooden door, he hoped she wasn’t asleep. He braced for her voice, likely to tell him to screw off, but the sound of shattering glass answered.
Vesper’s stomach sank and he knocked again. “Kyrith?” he called
When she didn’t answer, he turned the doorknob to find it thankfully unlocked. He slowly edged it open. The few times he’d been in her cabin, there had always been at least a single light, and it was odd to find such darkness. He called her name again, squinted into the shadows, and received silence. With a sigh, he slipped through the door.
First, he yanked open a curtain to allow some light from outside.
His heart sank when he spotted her crumpled form on the ground. Her lantern lay beside her, the glass shattered, and matches strewn across the floor. She lay face down, her leather vest in her hand,soakedin blood.
Vesper sprinted across the room and dropped to his knees. As he gently rolled her onto her back, his shaking hands coated in crimson.
She would sock him in the jaw for this, but he lifted the fabric of her shirt to examine the wound. Blood seeped from it with each sluggish pump of her heart. “Fuck, fuck,fuuuckkk, I need you to wake up.” He gently shook her as panic seized his chest. “Come on, tell me I’m an asshole. Or a moron. Something. Insult me.”
Nothing lingered within reach, so he ripped off his tunic and staunched the wound’s flow with it. Her eyes flew open and a choked groan followed.
He touched her cheek softly. “I’ll get you a healer.”
“No,” she wheezed and clutched his arm. “Don’t leave. Don’t you fucking leave me like this, you dickhead.”
He almost smiled despite the horrific circumstances. “That’s better.”
But for the first time, she clung tohimof all people. He swiped her hair back from her face. “I have to remove your shirt then, alright?”
She tried to sit up and failed. “No, you know what—I’m fine. You’re just trying to get me naked,” she gritted out.
He cocked a brow. “Right. Not to examine your disgusting wounds.”
They stared at each other for so long he thought she might actually drag herself from the cottage to escape, but, finally, she gave a hesitant nod.
“Okay, deep breath,” he said. “This will probably hur—”
“Fuck!” she hollered as he gingerly peeled her saturated shirt from her bloody abdomen. “You shithead.”
“I tried to warn you.” He wrenched a dagger from her belt to cut the fabric away so as to not to jostle her more. The memory of Emmery doing the same with Callias flashed through his mind.
Her hawk-handled blade cut through her tunic with ease.
His eyes flared, his breath hitched, and his world swayed around him, not from the blood loss or his aching wounds, nor the gash up her abdomen.
No, it was the fuckingcavaeandzvezdanestled under her collarbones.
And the black mark that swam between her breasts, the same one that lived beneath his own skin.
Shadowheart.
Because she was just like him.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
EMMERY