Anna knocked on the door.
She shifted from foot-to-foot, shivering in the dim corridor. Candlelight cast odd shadows across the citadel, catching on oil paintings and gilded statues of saints. She wrapped her arms around herself. She was dressed in a black wool jumper and trousers, but she'd gone barefoot on the cold tile floor. A crucial mistake.
"Come in," Ryne called.
She pushed open the door.
The room was bathed in shadow. Slaine had explained that it had once been used as a chapel, although the healers had converted it to a bedroom a decade ago. Still, you could see fragments of what it had once been: a rose window framing the moon; a wooden pew; the lingering scent of incense.
Ryne stood near the window. A white towel was slung low on his hips, and his dark hair was damp. He was holding a pot of something that smelled like peppermint. Anna watched as he twisted, attempting to slather it on his back.
Good gods. His back.
Anna bit her lip. The skin was a mess of shiny burns and pustules, as if someone had poured a pot of boiling water onto Ryne's back. She'd caught only a glimpse of it earlier. Seeing it now, six hours later...
Anna exhaled. "Gods."
"Looks worse than it is," Ryne said.
He applied the salve to his lower back, wincing slightly. Anna leaned against the wall. "How are you feeling?"
Ryne's smile was wry. "I've had better days."
He started on his upper back next, twisting awkwardly to get the angle right. Anna stepped forward. "I can do it."
Ryne raised an eyebrow. Still, he handed her the pot, turning to face the window. Silver moonlight wreathed his hair; she could see the muscles in his back contracting and expanding as he breathed. She dipped her fingers in the salve.
"This takes me back," Ryne murmured.
"Last time I did this," Anna said, "I was trying to get a key out of your pocket and steal your throne."
She could hear the smile in Ryne's voice. "Not much has changed, then."
"No," Anna murmured. "I suppose not." She traced a burn, her fingers light. "Delafort, about what happened in the pools..."
"Which part?" Ryne asked.
"The end bit."
"Ah," Ryne said. "The bit where I said that I was in love with you."
"Yeah," Anna said.
She applied salve to his shoulder. The muscle flexed under her fingers, shifting like currents under a calm surface. His skin was warm under her hands. For a moment, neither of them spoke; then Ryne half-turned, his green eyes bright.
"You must have suspected it," Ryne said.
Anna kept her gaze on his back. "It turns out that you're a very good liar."
"Not my finest moment, admittedly," Ryne said. "There's something very undignified about drowning in a vat of boiled beetroot. I always thought I'd go out in a much more glorious fashion." He braced his hands against the windowsill. "Well?"
Anna paused. "Well, what?"
"Aren't you going to ask me about it?"
"I don't see why." Anna stepped back, screwing the lid back on. "You've never asked me about why I'm taking on your curse."
"What shall we discuss then?" Ryne sat on the window seat. "Politics? The weather? Knitting patterns?" He crossed his arms. "I'm quite partial to a purl stitch myself. It's basic, I know, but you can't fault—"
"You're being difficult," Anna said.
His mouth quirked. "I'm always difficult."
"I think they'll ally with us." Anna turned for the sideboard. "Zarob."
Ryne raised an eyebrow. "I should bloody well hope so. I didn't swim in pool of acidic bubblegum for the fun of it. Cidarius." The bench creaked. "Look at me."
Anna set the salve down. A pulse beat in her throat, and her knuckles were white on the pot. "What?"
Ryne's gaze was thoughtful. "You're angry."
"I'm not angry," Anna said.
He smiled. "Liar."
"This is so messed up," Anna said. "You see that, don't you?"
The pulse was spreading, running through her veins like hot wildfire. Ryne waited, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked like a marble statue in the moonlight, all hard planes and chiselled jawline. It only infuriated her more.
"We hate each other," Anna said.
"No," Ryne said calmly. "We don't."
"How can you even—?" She broke off, turning to the window. "I infiltrated your castle. I poisoned you."
"I found that endearing," Ryne said.
"You locked me in a tower for months."
He shrugged. "That was for your protection."
"You're married."
Ryne lifted an eyebrow. "Is that a serious objection?" She didn't say anything, and he raised his hands. "I'm not married. Never said the words. Anyway, I'm technically dead. I'm fairly certain that nullifies a marriage."
A sharp pain twisted her chest. "Don't."
"What?"
"This isn't funny," Anna said.
"It's a bit funny."
Her voice was tight. "Your father slaughtered by family. He killed Rourke."
Any amusement faded from his face. Ryne's eyes were hard emeralds, and his towel shifted as he leaned forward. She wished she hadn't noticed. "I'm not my father."
Anna pinched her nose. "There's one throne, and there's two of us. You don't have to be brilliant at maths to see the issue." She dropped her hand. "Look me in the eyes and tell me that you're willing to give it up. Say that you're willing to have a nightweaver queen on the throne."
A muscle flickered in his jaw. "You know I can't do that."
"Exactly."
"But I still want you," Ryne said.
Anna exhaled. "This is ridiculous."
Ryne spread his palms on his thighs. "Do you think it makes sense to me? Do you think I'm enjoying this? I've spent my whole life hating the idea of you." His eyes were hooded. "I still spend most days trying to hate you. Trust me."
"It'll get easier," Anna said. "The feelings will fade."
His mouth tightened. "They won't."
"They will."
"They won't." Ryne's green eyes blazed. "You want to know what those pools smelled like? You want to know what I couldn't stay away from?"
"Delafort—"
"You." His breathing was ragged. "They smelled like you, Cidarius. Your body. Your hair. I can't get the godsdamn scent off my sheets. Everywhere I go, that bloody scent follows me. I can't escape it."
"Stop it."
Ryne ran a calloused hand over his face. "What do you want from me, Cidarius? An apology?"
Anna looked away. Ryne's laugh was humourless.
"I'm sorry," Ryne said, his cheeks flushed, "that it's such a great inconvenience that I'm in love with you. I'm sorry you find it difficult. But it's even worse for me. So don't expect much sympathy."
He was breathing hard, his chest pumping up and down. Something sour curdled in her mouth. "You think it's worse for you?"
Ryne's eyes glittered. "I know it is."
Anna started forward. "Gods, you can be such a pain in the—"
Ryne kissed her.
Ryne's arm wrapped around her waist, long fingers threading in her hair. He tasted of honey tea and salt. She grabbed on to his shoulders; the muscles there felt stronger than she remembered. Both familiar and not.
"Tell me stop," Ryne murmured.
Anna shook her head.
She kissed him harder, enough to bruise his mouth. Ryne made a sound — a groan, or her name, or maybe both — and pulled at her hair. His hands roamed over her back, sliding over curves and hollows. Memorizing her. She felt like she was dissolving into his grip, like she was butter melting in a pan.
She didn't care. Didn't want to stop.
Anna stepped back, pulling her black jumper over her head. Ryne's eyes grew darker. His mouth was damp and swollen from kissing her.
"Cidarius."
The word was a plea. Anna stepped closer.
"I want you," she said.
It was true. The most truthful thing she was willing to admit to him, anyway. Ryne ran a hand over her pale shoulder.
"Turn around," he murmured.
Anna did.
Ryne pulled her on to his lap. She could feel the fluffy cotton of the towel pressing into her thighs, so much softness over hard muscle. His fingers traced her spine. She shivered as Ryne followed the words there: Vox es nuqum.
"I hate him." Ryne's warm breath tickled the shell of her ear. "Sometimes I think about punishing him. Exactly how I'd do it. And I..." She felt his throat bob. "I want to hurt him more than I've ever wanted to hurt someone before."
Anna closed her eyes. Blood thrummed in her ears. She felt like they were standing on the edge of a plank, one step from leaping into a black sea.
"Kiss me again," she whispered.
Ryne lowered his head.
His warm mouth brushed her back. Once. Twice. He kissed a path up her scars, his touch achingly gentle. Tears stung at her eyes, and Anna bit down on her tongue until they disappeared. She half-turned to face him.
"I want more," she said.
His mouth tightened. "You don't know what you're asking."
"Yes, I do."
Ryne blew out a breath. "Cidarius..."
"It wouldn't be the first time," Anna said.
She wondered if they were both thinking of the same thing: formalwear hitting the floor, the taste of burned sugar and wine, bare limbs sliding over each other in a frenzied rhythm. Ryne's breathing grew shallow.
"It would be the first time," Ryne said, his voice low and clear, "that I slept with you and it meant something. I'm not sure that I could go back."
Anna shifted on his lap. "Do you remember when I found out that you'd worked magic on me? That day that I tied you to a chair and threatened you with a knife?"
Ryne's mouth turned up. "Vividly."
"I thought I was going to kill you," Anna said. "But I couldn't do it. All those years of hating you, and I couldn't bring myself to do it." A pulse hammered at her throat. "There's already no going back, Delafort. I think we both know that."
Ryne leaned in.
His mouth was warm. She shifted closer, and his hands whispered over her hips, anchoring her in place. This kiss felt different, Anna thought; it was lazier, somehow. It reminded her of Sunday mornings at the bakery, of pistachio croissants in the sun.
She pushed aside his towel.
Ryne rose, half-carrying her to the bed. His hands worked at her trousers, and then Anna was sprawled naked on the sheets; the cool air prickled her skin. She could hear the evensong drifting through the window, a haunting melody of voices and silver chimes. Ryne stood at the foot of the bed, his dark eyes roaming over her body.
"Beautiful." His smile was warm. "But you know that already."
Anna seized his shoulder. "Come here."
They tangled in a blur of limbs, their breathing growing faster and faster. Anna dug her nails into his back. She felt like a tidal wave was building inside of her, like the water was swelling and surging; she cried out when it broke, raining down in shards of frozen glass. Ryne followed a moment later, his voice hoarse and strangled.
They lay in silence. Ryne's heart pounded against her chest. She could feel his warm breath on the sticky crook of her shoulder, the slick sensation of his skin. He rolled off, and Anna resisted the childish urge to cling to him. To keep him close.
Ryne exhaled. "That was..."
"I know." Anna closed her eyes. "I felt it, too."
The evensong had long since faded, dissolving into the crash of waves and the hum of midnight frogs. She rolled on to her side, pillowing her chin on her hand; her dark hair spilled around her like shadows. "Delafort?"
"Yeah?"
Anna plucked at a stray thread. "How would you have answered that question? The one in the Soul Pools?"
Anna didn't bother to specify which one; there was only one question that had gone unanswered. She pictured Kati's sharp grey eyes, the dirt caked under her nails. Who do you intend to sit on the throne in Stillwater Castle? Sheets rustled. When Ryne spoke, there was a hint of sadness in his voice.
"I think you know that already."
Anna slumped back on the pillow. She looked out at the stars, scattered like a fistful of gold coins tossed across the sky. This changes nothing, she thought.
But it changed everything.
Everything.