When I’d confronted her about it, she’d simply shrugged and said, “I liked it. It reminded me of you, pristine on the outside, a little broken on the edges.”
I’d let her keep it.
“The teacup was different,” I said, watching as she twisted her hair into an elaborate knot. “I knew exactly where it was.”
“With me.”
“Yes. With you. Where it belonged.” The words came out softer than intended, laden with meaning beyond the accepted thievery.
Her hands stilled, and for a moment, our eyes held in the reflection. Then she smirked, breaking the spell. “So sentimental. I prefer you grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.” I stood, moving to stand behind her, my hands settling on her shoulders. “I’m discerning.”
“You’re a perfectionist and you know it.” She leaned back against me, her head resting against my chest. “And meticulous. And absolutely incapable of letting anything be slightly out of place. Which is probably my favorite thing. That and the dick, of course.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to hide the damn smile. I refused to acknowledge her attempt to derail the subject. Clever little menace. “Someone has to maintain order in this chaos you call a filing system. You organized the books by color rather than subject.”
“It’s aesthetic.”
“It’s ridiculous. Tuck nearly had an aneurysm when he saw what you’d done to the library.”
“Tuck is overly dramatic about literature. And pretty much everything else. If I didn’t know he was eternally a god, I’d swear he was an actor in a previous life.”
I pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Now, about my quill…”
She sighed dramatically, pulling away to open a drawer in the vanity. “Fine. I was going to surprise you, but since you’re being such an ass…”
From the drawer, she withdrew a small leather-bound book, its cover a deep blue that matched the ink I’d been missing along with the quill and handed it over.
I opened it carefully, recognizing her handwriting that filled the pages. Not notes or records or official correspondence, but stories. Our stories. Tales of how we’d met in different lives, memories she’d pieced together from the voices that haunted her, fragments and dreams and the quiet conversations we’d had on countless nights.
“I’ve been working on it for months,” she admitted, a hint of uncertainty in her voice that few ever heard. “I thought… Well, you’re not technically the Keeper anymore, but these memories still matter. They’re still ours. I didn’t want them to fade.”
Something shifted in my chest, a warmth spreading through me as I turned the pages, seeing our history through her eyes. The dancer and the god. The barmaid and the scholar. The fallen queen and her shadow. A thousand lifetimes distilled onto ink and paper.
“You stole my quill to write our story?”
“I borrowed it. There’s a difference.”
“And the ink?”
“Also borrowed. I needed something that would last. Immortal or not, paper fades. I wanted something that would endure, like us.”
I closed the book carefully, setting it on the vanity before pulling her to me. “You continue to surprise me, Paesha darling.”
“I’m not surprised. You’re not very observant.” Her hands rested on my chest, fingers playing with the buttons of my shirt.
“You’re such a beautiful little liar.” I captured her chin, tilting her face up to mine. “Though I still expect my quill to be returned to its proper place.”
She rolled her eyes. “And just like that, the moment is ruined.”
“I’m simply maintaining standards.”
“You’re being fussy.” She pulled away, tapping my nose. “We’re going to be late for dinner if you keep distracting me with your obsessive need for order.”
“I’m distracting you? You’re the one who walked out here wearing nothing but a towel and an attitude.”
“Worked, didn’t it?” She glanced over her shoulder, expression smug. “You completely forgot about reorganizing my vanity.”
