I gasp as he catches my waist and forces me still. His hands are strong and sure against me, and his voice comes very low. “Do not ever say that you have nothing to offer.”

I’m breathing so hard that I might cry, or laugh, or break into a million pieces that will drift away on the wind.

“Do you know,” he says quietly, “when that soldier pressed a knife to your throat, I could have taken his head.”

His words are so callous, so practical, belying the softness in his voice. That empty blackness glimmers in his eye, a hint at what he can become when the need arises. I shiver. “You didn’t need to.”

“You didn’t need me to save you.” He pauses. “And your words stayed my hand.”

“My words?”

“You said that not every problem can be solved by the end of a sword. I have carried those words with me for days.” He pauses. “Since you made me realize that I am no longer a weapon to be wielded by another.”

Emotion tightens my chest, but his closeness, his warmth, have slowed my breathing. “You are not a weapon, Grey.”

“I can be.” His hand lifts from my waist to brush a lock of hair from my cheek. “But you are by far more dangerous.”

I can hardly think with his fingers tracing a line down the side of my face. “Ah, yes, the most dangerous person at the party is always the girl sitting alone with a book.”

He doesn’t smile. “You underestimate yourself. Your sister seems determined to be as ruthless as possible—to impress your mother, I am sure. And while ruthlessness may have its place, I believe your brand of strength would garner greater loyalty. That is what makes you dangerous. Not because you would ride in with a blade and take control, but because you could quietly sit in this chair, in the dark, with your book”—the corner of his mouth turns up—“and you could determine the best way to achieve what needs to be done.”

I flush. “No, Grey, I’m sitting here with a book because—”

He leans down and brushes his lips against mine. So light, like the touch of a butterfly’s wings. Hardly a kiss, barely a kiss, but the motion lights a fire in my belly and robs every thought from my head, leaving us standing there, sharing breath.

His fingers are still against my cheek, his thumb beside my lip. “Forgive me,” he begins. “You stopped me once before, and—”

I shake my head fiercely. “I shouldn’t have.”

This time, when his mouth finds mine, there’s nothing light about it. His strength radiates through his hands, and his kiss is like a flame. My knees are weak and trembling, but my hands are sure and steady, finding the column of his neck, the breadth of his shoulders, the unruly hair at his nape.

Then his arms are against my back, holding me against him, and that is almost better than the addictive pull of his kisses: to be held, to feel cherished. When his mouth finally releases mine, I sigh and press my face into the hollow below his chin.

This is foolish. Risky. Terrifying. Anyone could come out onto the veranda. He should release me.

He does not. One hand is idly stroking the hair down my back, and I’m powerless with his breath in my hair and his scent buried in my head.

“Fell siralla,” he says, and I giggle.

“Nah,” I say. “Fell bellama. Fell garrant. Fell vale.”

“I hope those aren’t worse than stupid.”

I shake my head against his neck. He must feel my blush through his shirt. “Beautiful man. Brave man.”

He waits, then says, “There were three.”

“You notice everything!”

“What is the third?”

He never lets me back away from anything either. I love it and hate it. “You’ll have to learn Syssalah to find out.”

“Fell vale,” he muses, and his terrible accent makes me giggle again. “You’ll have to give me more lessons,” he adds.

“Someone will.”

A finger brushes my chin, and I tilt my face up. His lips find mine again. The night sky seems to close in around us, wrapping us in silence and warmth.

Then a screech splits the night.

Grey jerks his head up. “Iisak.”

Another screech. Then another. Louder and more vicious than I’ve ever heard. I want to clamp my hands down over my ears.

I remember my mother’s words to the scraver, something about tonight. Oh, what has she done?

I don’t have much time to wonder, because everyone inside begins screaming.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

GREY

People are spilling out of the doors and onto the veranda, and Lia Mara and I fight our way through them to get back into the main room. Most of the guards have a hand on their weapon, but none have drawn them. Chairs have been overturned in the rush, dishes shattered on the ground.

In the center of the room stand Karis Luran and Nolla Verin. A man’s body is at their feet, his chest and abdomen torn open. Four long scratches cross his face, so badly I cannot make out his features. The scent of blood and worse things taints the air.

“No,” Lia Mara whispers at my side. “No.”

Iisak is off to the side, a silver band locked around his throat, attached to a glittering chain. Karis Luran holds the other end. His fangs are bared, his claws red with blood. He’s drawn away from her as far as the chain will allow.

Most of the dinner guests have not run, though a few look a bit sick, their expressions a mixture of horror and fascination.

The only people who don’t look fascinated are Tycho and Noah. A guard blocks them from approaching the man on the ground. Noah looks furious.

Jake appears at my side. He speaks in a low rush. “She said she had a demonstration for those who would dare defy her. Then she dragged this guy in here. We thought she was going to cut his head off or something, which was bad enough. Then one of her guards hauled Iisak in.”

I had somehow forgotten why Karis Luran has such a brutal reputation among the people of Emberfall.

I had somehow forgotten what her soldiers did to our border cities.

I had forgotten because I looked to Lia Mara, instead of paying attention to who was truly in power.

I stare across the room at Iisak. His chest rises and falls rapidly, like the chain makes it hard to breathe. His eyes are cold and black and resigned.

Now he is the weapon to be wielded by another. A steep cost, he said. Indeed.

“Come, Your Highness,” says Karis Luran. “He may already be dead.”

My eyes meet hers. “I do not understand.”

“We are told you can restore lives,” says Nolla Verin. “Show us.”

This evening was not a celebration. It was a means to a test.

I feel like such a fool to have not suspected. I take a breath and move to step forward.

Jake shifts close and blocks me with his shoulder. “Don’t do it for free,” he says, his voice hardly louder than breath.

I meet his eyes, reassured by the cool practicality there.

I give him a short nod, then move forward. The man’s abdomen is shredded so badly that there’s more blood and muscle visible than skin. Iisak’s claws caught one eye, though the other is intact. One cheek is slashed so severely that I can see the teeth beneath. His breath comes very slowly.

I’ve never flinched at the aftermath of violence, so I do not flinch now. I look back at Karis Luran. “What payment do you offer?”