𝔸 ℂ𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕎𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕙 (Book 2)

Eighty

Amren took the Book to wherever she lived in Velaris, leaving the five of us to eat and simmer over the new information we'd gained. While Rhys told them of our visits to the Summer Court, I managed to get through breakfast before the exhaustion of staying up all night, draining my magic, nearly drowning, and getting punched in the stomach hit me. When I woke, the house was empty. The afternoon sun was golden and warm and lovely as the light danced across my skin, shining through my window.

    So unusually warm and lovely that I stole a book from downstairs, and for the first time in a long time, sat out in the garden and read.

    Though the sun eventually shifted, as the sun found its palace on the horizon just over the sea. The light blue sky went to sleep, and sweet gold and warm colors took its place, casting pink hues across the clouds as it painted a picture.

I escaped the garden. Too cold to simply sit there in the night, but I was unwilling to give up the air just yet.

    Quickly grabbing a sweater from my room, I trudged up three stories just to get to the roof to watch the sunset.

    But, of course—of course—Rhysand was already lounging in one of the white chairs, an arm slung over the back as he gripped some kind of amber-colored liquor. A crystal decanter set on the table before him.

    His wings were draped behind him on the tile floor.

    I studied him. The crease of his brow, the haunted look on his face, the way his hand was slightly white as he gripped the glass in his hand. The way his eyes were drooping as though he was either tired or had been nursing that liquor for a long while.

    "I know you're there." He said without turning around from the view of the Sidra and the red-gold sea beyond.

    I knew he had.

    "If you want to be alone, I can go." I said, raising a brow.

He simply jerked his chin toward the empty seat at the iron table. Not an entirely welcoming invitation, but I sat anyway. Crossing the roof slowly as I studied his manor more.

Rhys was tense. Everything about him was strung tight, his face, his eyes, his hands, his body. He seemed sad, regretful.

There was a wood box sitting beside the decanter of amber liquid. I might have thought it was something for the drink had I not seen the dagger fashioned of pearl in the lid.

Had I not smelled the sea and heat of the soil that was Tarquin. "What is that?"

Rhys downed his drink before he held up a hand—the decanter floating to him on a phantom wind—and promptly poured himself another knuckles length of it

When he spoke, his voice was not the Rhys I had come to know. "I debated it for a good while, you know." he said, staring out at the city. "Whether I should just ask Tarquin for the Book. But I thought he might very well say no, then sell the information to the highest bidder. I thought he might say yes, and it'd still wind up with too many people knowing our plans and the potential for the information to get out. And at the end of the day, I needed the why of our mission to remain secret for as long as possible." He drank again, and raked a hand through his black hair. "I didn't like stealing from him. I didn't like hurting his guards. I didn't like vanishing without a word, when, ambition or no, he did truly want an alliance. Maybe even a friendship. No other High Lords have ever bothered—or dared. But I think Tarquin wanted to be my friend."

I narrowed my eyes just a fraction, confused as to where this was coming from. Again my eyes strayed to the box on the table, "What is that?"

"Open it."