Their eyes locked. Mace’s smile should have faltered, seeing the surprise give way to fear and fury on her face, but he could not get past the longing there, his own longing, his relief. She was so beautiful, it made him ache. Even sharp and thin as she was, even with dark circles beneath her eyes that mirrored his own, even as angry as he’d clearly made her feel. To him she seemed a goddess of justice, holding his fate in her hands. He would have gladly died by her blade in that moment.
His princess asked if he was mad, and his eyes only softened further, as if admitting yes. Yes, he was mad with love for her. Yes, he was stupid in love with her. Yes, he would do it again. He drank in her bright expression, the faint tremor in her lips, the crest of her perfect breasts, pale as moonlight. She seemed ready to tear him to pieces and all he could do was revel in her presence, oblivious to the drop of blood beading along her blade.
When she stepped away, and the distance between them was intolerable – he closed it again, gripped her arms with his broad hands. Her eyes were glistening with threatening tears and he felt regret for the first time, for causing her unintended pain. Was she really so afraid? He frowned at her, stunned by the depth of her fear, the ripple of distrust.
“Nobody saw,” he insisted, running his thumbs over the points of her shoulders gently, reassuringly. “Why do you think I led you on such an insane chase? Nobody saw, and nobody could follow that route. Except for you,” his smile was soft, admiring, but she interrupted his encouragement with a firm grip on his wrist, dragging him into a thicket of laundry lines and moldering garbage. “Put your hood back up,” she instructed him, as if he were an idiot, or a child. “Follow me.”
“Morgana,” he started dryly, resisting the weight of her pulling him, as if suddenly taking root. Ducking his head to meet her eye, he frowned at her. His eyes were gentle, but his mouth was hard. “Trust me.”
It must have been difficult. Mace knew she trusted her birds far more than him, was not sure he would ever outrank them. Knew it was not a matter of years or experience or skill, for he had all three, sometimes so much he wondered if he was not far too old for her. But now, he thought, she needed him. She needed to remember that there were still people she could trust. Even if it meant he had to break another’s trust, to help her.
He pulled her down one alley, and then another, weaving an incomprehensible route across the town with pathfinder magic. At one point he pressed her into a doorway, covering her body with his, as they waited for a man to pass down an adjacent street. It was difficult to be so close to her, and maintain such a distance. When it was clear, he pulled her out again, brokering no argument, and continued their wending way.
Eventually they reached the back door of a shuttered house, and Mace produced a key.
This would be, perhaps, surprising. He watched her in his peripherals as he unlocked the door deftly and ushered her inside, shutting the door softly and silently behind them, and turning the bolt in a well-oiled lock. The interior was deadly quiet, somehow insulated from the noise of the market outside. Mace spared a glance out the curtains with practiced, careful movements, then turned to her fully, slipping the key into his pocket.
“Safe house,” he clarified, his faint smile almost apologetic. It was a thing he’d kept from her, one of numerous things he had to keep from her, to protect the people they loved. “This isn’t my first rodeo.” Then he reached for her, dragged her to his chest and banded strong arms around her, a cage of muscle, or a protective barrier. She felt tiny in his embrace.
He would have given anything, anything, to keep her safe.
“We have a few minutes, at least.”
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