“I have always trusted you.”
He’d said that, while they stole furtively through the alleys to arrive in this place. But holding her here, he realized it was not entirely true. He trusted her with most things – with his life, with his heart – but there was information he could not entrust to her. Not when so much hung in the balance. Not with her life on the line.
“Burn the safehouse,” he murmured against her hair. “Say you followed that thief here, and were delayed by having to break in. When you couldn’t find the thief inside, you investigated. You found notes about Mordred’s shipping routs in a dresser upstairs. You found a false floor, a tunnel leading out of Oliford.”
Mace leaned back just enough to catch her eye, reached up to trace the path the tear had taken with his thumb. “The notes are old, but the tunnel is real. We haven’t used this one in months.” It was torture to see her so afraid, and know he’d have to let her go again. Back into that lion’s den – back to him. Was there a single person on this world that he hadn’t broken, somehow? His effect was like the blast radius of a dirty bomb; everyone close to him had taken the worst of the damage, left maimed or dead, and only those he’d never met escaped unscathed. The only safety was distance. “I’ve missed you, too. So much,” he mirrored, pulling her close again, tucking her head beneath his chin.
He wished he could impose that distance – he wished he could take her away, right now. If only they could stay like this. If only they had more than a handful of stolen minutes, each one ticking closer to a catastrophe that squatted in the room with them, a bloated monster taking up their thoughts. If only they didn’t have to think so much about her cover, about getting the story straight. The joy of having her near was in such opposition to his regret at having put her in danger…but she was an asset too, he’d best remember, and spycraft was always dangerous. At least this way he could hold her, instead of negotiate with a squawking bird.
“Things are looking up,” he assured her, with a faint smile. But there was hesitation there, tension in his eyes that he could not hide. Reluctance. “I wish I could tell you more, but…” his words trailed off into a sigh; his gaze dropped to her feet. “I hate to ask but…you know I have to. If there’s anything you can give us, anything at all…” He waited for her response, watching attentively, but still unable to stop himself from tucking a wayward curl behind her ear. Her cheeks were flushed and warm from their flight, but her ear was still cool from the winter air. Her hair was the silk of a raven’s feather. Mace wanted to kiss her, badly, but only allowed himself a chaste press of his lips against her forehead when she’d finished, folding his arms around her waist.
“A rodeo is a horsemanship competition, mostly,” he said after a moment’s silence. It was a frivolous use of their time, he knew – this was not privileged or useful information. But he was so tired of thinking about war, and talking about war, and he wanted only to invite her to think of something else, for once. Something that couldn’t hurt her. “Riders race through obstacle courses, or rope cows, or try to stay on the back of a bronco. It’s a bit of a circus,” he admitted, smiling genuinely through a muffled laugh. “When this is over, I’ll take you to see one. Get you a pair of cowboy boots, and a big hat…show you around where I grew up. The mountains there are like nothing else. When this is over…” his voice thickened; he had to swallow, tighten his grip. “When this is done, I don’t ever want to be apart from you again.”
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