Kejtie

A world without you would be a dark, depressing place.

“I was ready to let it all go for you,” he murmured. “Do you know that, Oraya? I was ready to let my kingdom fall for you. You should have let me stay dead.”

Everything I couldn’t say threatened to drown me.

And his fingers clutched mine, trembling, as he hissed, “So don’t you fucking dare stop fighting, princess. It would break my damned heart.”

“You are more than what he made you,” he said.

He had destroyed me, too. Perhaps it was good that we would die tomorrow. Because I didn’t know how to remake myself after this.

“I would beg,” he murmured. “For you, I would. You have fucking destroyed me, Oraya. Do you know that?”

When his eyes came back to mine, he looked like a man undone. “Come here,” he whispered. Pleaded.

“You don’t even know, Oraya.” The corner of his mouth, where a little smudge of my blood remained, curled as he shook his head. “The things I’ve thought about. ‘Want’ doesn’t even fucking cover it. I have a list.”

Kisses over the fresh scar I had asked for. Kisses over the old one I had not.

I turned to him. His throat bobbed, eyes darkening.
I knew that look, too. A different kind of hunger.

“You look nice,” he said, in a tone of voice that made nice sound like a million other promises, each of which shivered over my flesh.

And then I realized. I realized that fear, when embraced, hardens and sharpens.
That it becomes rage.
That it becomes power.

But deep, deep inside my heart, somewhere I wouldn’t look at too closely, I could feel it. A crack.

“I have plenty of self-control, Oraya,” he murmured. “Don’t you worry about me.”

“You cannot accomplish anything in this world without power,” he said. “And power requires sacrifice, focus, and ruthlessness.”

“I have no regrets. I’d throw you out that window again.”
“Oh, I know, princess. I know.”

I need a new nervous habit. Nail biting. Fidget spinners. I’ve heard great things about crystal meth.

I’d give everyone the me they wanted, needed, craved, and in exchange they’d care about me.

I didn’t let go of you for years, and I didn’t even have you.

“You’re some kind of fantasy. Built to do this. Built for me. Fuck, Bee.”

I stop. Levi is staring at me open-mouthed. “I have hummingbird shit on my face, don’t I?”

Is he thinking about what happened here twenty-four hours ago? Well, more like twenty-eight point five, but which maniac is counting?

“She was caught porking. On my desk.”

God. Oh, God. I think I like him.
“There’s one single format in which space is tolerable,” he says.
“Which is?”
“Star Wars movies.”
Oh, God.

“I can’t wait to sip your tears out of my new mug,” I murmur.

“I’m the luckiest idiot who ever walked this earth,” said Draco, holding her face, pressing his forehead against hers.

Happiness was her, alive, her tear-filled eyes spilling over, her heartbeat thudding against his chest.

He kissed her, softly, under the downpour, softly, against her split lip, softly, amongst tears and rain and blood.

He was drunk on endorphins and too much good booze and too little good sense. Her lips were parted. She was looking at him like she could kiss him. It was – impossible. It couldn’t happen.

Draco did that thing he’d grown to like doing, of giving her answers that actually referred to her. “Gorgeous,” said Draco.

Granger said, “Beautiful,” and Draco said, “Yes,” but they were not talking about the same thing.

“How do you feel about thievery?”“In favour,” said Draco. “You don’t even know what we’re stealing.”
“What is it?”“What if it were – theoretically, of course – a precious relic of critical religious significance?”
“...When are we going?”“Have you got any plans for the Solstice?” asked Granger. “Thievery of a religious artefact with a surprisingly naughty Healer,” said Draco. “You?”

And besides, in this cottage, with Granger the Human Anemone and her orange toilet brush of a familiar, his hair still easily won best-in-show.

“So,” Jesiba said, drumming her fingers on her desk, “the pup goes to pitch a deworming medicine to a bunch of wolves and comes home Prime.”

The pulse in her throat seemed to flutter in answer. “I want you all the time.”

Ithan peered around the sterile, tiled morgue and managed to say, “Why do you guys have a morgue down here?”
Jesiba sat on a medical-looking stool, back straight. “Where else are we supposed to raise dead bodies?”
“I don’t know why I asked.”

Showing a masked queen, a crown upon her head, bearing instruments in her hand and standing before an adoring crowd. Behind her, a great mountaintop palace rose toward the sky, winged horses soaring among the clouds.

The last carving before the river had been one of transition: a Fae King and Queen seated on thrones, a mountain—different from the one with the palace atop it—behind them with three stars rising above it.

“Sealed with you jumping in front of a bomb for me.”
“It’s disturbing when you make jokes about that, Quinlan.”

“Best be quiet, then, Quinlan,” he said against her skin.

Hunt had managed to prop himself up on his elbows when Ithan yelled from the other side of the apartment, “Please: have sex a little louder! I didn’t hear everything that time!”

“Those look like broken ribs,” Hunt said wryly.
“Definitely broken ribs, Athalar,” Bryce replied, sitting back on her heels. “And a broken arm, from the way he’s cradling it.”
“Skull fracture’s healed,” Hunt observed with equal distance, as if they were on one of his favorite Vanir crime procedurals. Ithan’s eyes flashed again.
“I’m sensing hostility and a good dose of male pride,” Bryce said.
“Throw in some stubbornness and I’d say we’ve got ourselves a classic case of stupidity,” Hunt answered.
“What the fuck is wrong with you two?” Ithan demanded.

“So,” said a voice behind Ilya. He glanced up from where he was sitting on the grass and saw Hayden. “You stole my best friend.”
“Yes. But you outed us in a FanMail video, so maybe we are even.”

“Isn’t that why I’m here?” Ilya asked with a hint of irritation. “So I don’t have to burden him with this? I thought I could talk to you and fix myself so I can be good enough for him.”

“Yes. Was probably true. I look at you and I am just...” Ilya opened and closed his fist several times in front of his chest. “My heart goes crazy, you know?”

When he was settled on the bed, shirtless as instructed, Shane said, in Russian, “Do you have plans for me?”

“What is the problem?” Ilya asked.
Shane spun to face him, eyes glinting. “The problem is that I’m trying to run a camp with a fucking toddler.”

There was no good reason for Ilya to skate down the ice with one of the pucks and fire it at the glass behind Shane’s head, but he did it anyway. He could hear Shane scream, and Ilya laughed when he whipped around, eyes flashing with fury.
“Asshole!” Shane yelled.
Ilya gestured with his stick toward the children on the ice and shook his head. “Language, Hollander.”

Ilya hadn’t realized how much fun it would be to confuse Hayden with compliments. He would have to do it more often.