“On what?”
“On how they choose to classify you.”
I squint at him. “That’s not ominous at all.”
His silence stretches. I can’t tell if it’s agreement or indifference. I blow out a breath, trying not to let the sharp, itchy feeling behind my ribs spread. It’s fine. This is fine. I’ve made worse choices. Probably.
“So, real question,” I say, working to keep my tone flippant, “is there something I can call you? You know, short of ‘my slightly threatening hallucination.’ Because I’ve gone through most of the broody fantasy romance tropes—Dark McBroodyface, Sinister Cloak Guy, The Tall One With Cheekbones—and honestly I’m starting to repeat myself.”
“You may call me what you want,” he says, flatly.
I blink. “That’s oddly philosophical. And very open-ended. But okay.”
A beat.
I squint at him again. “Wait, was that a name?”
He doesn’t answer.
I make a face. “We’ll workshop it.”
We keep walking.
The gates to the city are visible now. Two enormous, curved towers frame the entryway, runed and glowing. Shapes move beyond them—people, I think—but I can’t quite focus on them yet.
I force a breath through my nose. “So… what happens if your people decide I am a threat?”
He stops and turns to face me. For the first time since I first saw him on the ridge, the air around him settles. The shimmer quiets. His form sharpens. No blur. No flicker. Just him, standing still, lit from behind by the city’s fire. Dark wavy hair. Darker eyes. High ridged cheekbones and a sharp jawline. He looks a bit like that actor that played Superman, but on steroids. I swallow, willing myself not to blush. It has to be adrenaline causing the heat to curl in my belly. He can be good looking, sure, thanks brain for hallucinating me a little treat, but don’t forget that I’m either dead, dying, or lying at the bottom of an elevator shaft.
“Do you mean Crimson or it’s people harm?” he asks. His voice isn’t harsh. It’s level. Precise. It lands in my chest like a weight.
“No,” I say quickly. “Of course not.” He doesn’t move. Still watching me. “I mean it,” I add. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m not here on purpose. I didn’t mean to trespass or infringe or whatever it is I did.”
“You survived,” he says. “You survived the Wastes.”
“Not on purpose.”
“It is not the act itself that is in question. It is that survival should have been impossible, and yet…”
And yet, here I am.
The gates loom—massive and bone-white, inscribed with glowing red sigils that pulse like they are alive. The guards in front of them are just as intimidating, all sharp armor and narrow eyes, like they’ve been bred to spot threats before they can blink. One steps forward as we approach. His helmet’s off, tucked under one arm, and his face is all perfect lines and practiced disdain. He doesn’t look at my escort. He looks at me.
“This is the mortal?” he asks, voice too casual to be polite.
Something about his tone prickles against my skin. I resist the urge to step behind my big dark and dangerous babysitter. Barely.
“She is under watch,” the man beside me says, calm and clipped.
The guard’s eyes linger. “Strange. She looks fragile.”
“I’m right here,” I say, voice too sharp to sound brave. “And I bite.” It only occurs to me after the words are out of my mouth that they could be interpreted as a threat.
His mouth curls into a smirk. “Where are you taking her?”
There’s a shift in the air. My escort doesn’t move, but somehow the space around him does—pulling taut like a held breath.
“That has not been disclosed to you.”
