Touching his lips to her shoulder, Gideon breathed her in.
Rune didn’t wear the artificial perfumes so popular among the New Republic’s elite. She didn’t smell like lilacs or jasmine or roses; she smelled like herself. Like standing at the edge of the bluffs after a storm. Like a gulp of fresh sea air.
Gideon wanted to inhale her.
Rune stirred, her grip tightening on the sheets between them. Gideon froze, watching her forehead crease in a frown. Like she was having an unpleasant dream. He wanted to touch his thumb to that crease. Gently rub it away.
Rune tried to cuddle closer. She slid her leg between both of his and bent her knee, hooking them tighter together. Satisfied, she fell still again, drifting deeper.
I’m afraid you’ll be the end of me.
Gideon wanted to convince her that she couldn’t be more wrong.
He waited until she was fast asleep again before gently untangling their legs and carefully removing himself from the bed. After dressing, he finally tore his eyes away from her to brew himself a cup of coffee. Then he strode downstairs and into his parents’ old studio.
With Rune’s words still clanging through his head, he opened the door to a shallow closet he hadn’t opened in years. He flicked the wall switch and the light inside sputtered to life, illuminating a space full of dusty boxes.
Gideon glanced to the uppermost shelf, where an odd assortment of books was stacked. It was his mother’s collection, books she’d used for inspiration. When he found the one he wanted—an encyclopedia of wildflowers—he pulled it down, blew the dust off, then cracked it open.
He skimmed the pages until he found the entry he was looking for. Opening the book wider, he studied the botanical drawing before him.
Perhaps there was a way to prove his intentions were genuine.
Gideon had started toward the fabrics when someone knocked on the shop door. Wondering who would visit at this hour, he left the encyclopedia on the table and went to answer it.
Harrow stood on the other side. Half of her face was battered, and a curve of black stitches arced down her cheek. One of her arms was in a splint.
“Shouldn’t you still be in the hospital?” he asked.
Beside Harrow stood Laila, out of uniform, her dark brown hair pulled back in an elegant bun.
“He talked.”
Both girls pushed past him into the room.
“Who talked?” asked Gideon, shutting the door behind them.
“The print shop owner,” Laila answered. “We arrested him early this morning and brought him into custody.”
Harrow turned a chair at the worktable backward and plunked herself onto it.
“A student at the university paid him for the use of his storeroom, alleging to need it for a school project. The owner says he didn’t know what it was being used for.”
Gideon crossed his arms. “He didn’t find it suspicious that a student required the use of a storeroom?”
Laila’s shoulders lifted. “The money must have been enough to stifle his curiosity.”
“Did you get the student’s name?”
Laila shook her head. “Only a description. Based on his account, the sketch artist drafted this likeness.” She slid her hand into the pocket of her trousers and pulled out a folded piece of paper, holding it out to Gideon.
Uncrossing his arms, he took the paper, unfolding it to study the sketch. A girl stared back at him. Her dark, shoulder-length curls matched her dark sunken eyes, which were partially hidden behind spectacles.
“Looks remarkably like Rune’s friend, don’t you think?” said Harrow.
Verity de Wilde, she meant.
Sure, there was a slight resemblance. But this sketch could easily be some other nearsighted scholar. He handed it back to Laila. “We’ll need more than a sketch to prove it.”
“You could start by asking your sweetheart where her friend was the night of the attack,” said Harrow, her arms crossed over the back of the chair, her tone sharp.
Gideon ran a hand through his hair, not liking where this was going.
“I disagree,” said Laila, leaning against his worktable. “If the suspect is Verity de Wilde, Rune was likely in on the scheme. Asking her will send her running to warn her friend.”
“Hold on,” said Gideon. “We can’t know this”—he held up the vague sketch—“is Verity de Wilde. Even if it resembles her somewhat, the print shop owner might have given a false description.”
Harrow started to say something, but Gideon held up his hand, locking eyes with her. “More importantly: Rune wasn’t in on the scheme.”
Harrow slit her eyes. “You’re certain of that?”
Gideon remembered Rune sitting outside his front door, weeping. Believing him dead.
He thought of everything they’d done last night.
“She’s not a witch.”
“Do you have proof this time?” Harrow’s voice dripped with suspicion.
Aware of Laila’s gaze, Gideon shifted uncomfortably. But if this was a standoff, he wouldn’t be intimidated. Rune deserved to be exonerated.
“The proof is currently sleeping in my bed.”
“You slept with Rune Winters?” Laila’s eyes widened. “Are you out of your mind?”
Gideon glanced at his hunting partner, wanting to defend Rune. But Harrow already suspected he was bewitched by her. If he proved that suspicion true, she would accuse him of being compromised. If he was compromised, Laila would have to report him.
So he said, “It was the only way to know for sure.”
“He means it was the best way to search her for casting scars,” Harrow clarified, her honeyed eyes still fixed on Gideon. Like a cat waiting for a mouse to show itself. “And? How was it, Comrade? Was she everything you hoped she’d be?”
His whole body prickled, not liking her tone—or the question. But he needed to be careful here, for Rune’s sake as much as his own. He needed to make Harrow and Laila believe he felt nothing for her. That what he’d done with Rune was pure business.
He forced the words out.
“I’ve had better,” he said, staring Harrow down. “You were right; it was no chore. But I’m not about to repeat the endeavor anytime soon.” The lie sank inside him like poison. “She’s a pretty face, nothing more.”
Harrow looked like she was about to respond when a floorboard creaked outside the room. As if someone stood listening on the other side of the door.
All three of them looked to the closed door.
In three strides, Gideon crossed the room and swung it open.
Rune stood in the frame, her face pale, her hair a tangle. The look of shock and hurt in her eyes was like an axe splitting open his chest.
“Rune …”
Visibly trembling, she stammered, “I-I have to go.”
Before he could stop her, she turned on her heel and stumbled out into the street.
FIFTY RUNE
RUNE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT hurt more: that Gideon would stoop so low in his quest to unmask the Crimson Moth, or that she’d fallen for his ruse.
I’ve had better. The words haunted her as she stepped into the street, lurching toward Lady, who waited dutifully at her hitching post. She’s a pretty face, nothing more.
As if sleeping with her was a task to accomplish. Something to get over with.