the studio. The Fae had definitely been at work. Hadrian’s skin was pale and his eyes were closed, his features strangely impassive.
Rania was surprised to feel a mix of helplessness and grief welling up inside her, and found tears blurred her vision. She couldn’t remember ever weeping over anything. She couldn’t remember ever mourning the loss of anyone, but she wanted to wail that Hadrian was dead.
She’d been assigned to kill him and now she mourned him. Was it just because she’d never be able to strike the final blow? Rania knew that wasn’t it.
As Balthasar tried to revive his friend, she realized that she could never have taken the life of this dragon shifter.
But it had happened anyway.
She admired Hadrian too much. She didn’t want to think of a world without his crooked grin or his confident dares. She recalled Alasdair’s story, of the Pyr cousins and how they had helped each other, how they had won the hearts of their destined mates and fulfilled the promise of their respective firestorms, and Rania realized that she wanted to believe that she and Hadrian were meant for each other.
She wished she’d had the chance to be with him in every way, and she even wished she had conceived his son. She wasn’t sure how that could work out, not with Maeve hunting Others, but Hadrian’s death made her question her loyalty to the Dark Queen.
His death felt wrong.
It was wrong.
And Maeve had commanded it.
Worse, Rania had been at least partly responsible. She should never have told Maeve about the gloves. Was it worth serving the Dark Queen if it meant a noble shifter like Hadrian had to die?
Balthasar had shifted shape again and was breathing a slow stream of dragonfire, gradually thawing the ice from Hadrian’s body. Alasdair mimicked his actions, the two massive dragons bracing themselves against the running water of the stream. Their scales glistened and gleamed in the fading light of the day. Rania wondered whether Hadrian would melt away, but he didn’t—he thawed.
He didn’t wake up, though.
Once the ice was gone, she put her fingertips to his throat. There was no pulse. He was still cold. Balthasar changed back to his human form and tried to revive Hadrian, but Rania knew it was too late. She folded her arms across her chest, hating this new sensation of being ineffective.
She should have felt celebratory. Her thirteenth victim was dead. Her bargain with Maeve was fulfilled. Her brothers would be freed and she could begin her life anew.
But she was filled with regret instead. She wished she’d taken the chance to have Hadrian’s son. She would have learned more about making love. She didn’t doubt that the satisfaction of the firestorm would have been a great experience.
Maybe Maeve would have made her son immortal, too, just to please her.
Rania bit her lip. Maybe Maeve would have insisted on making a deal with that son, letting him earn his right to live.
Maybe it was better if Hadrian’s son would never be.
She couldn’t feel glad about that either.
Yet even that wasn’t all of it.
She was going to miss Hadrian.
She was going to miss knowing that he was out there somewhere, being enthused about weapons and his skills, making things and solving puzzles, attracting ice and storms, and being loyal to his fellow Pyr.
His head fell to one side in that moment and she thought she could see a faint shadow on his cheek where she’d given him the kiss of death. It hadn’t been what killed him, though: it hadn’t worked. The mark was blue now, as if it had been frozen and kept from doing its worst.
Rania frowned. The kiss of death always faded from view after the victim died. It left no sign of its existence. It was a Fae thing.
Why was Hadrian’s visible now?
Why hadn’t he died of it earlier?
She followed the Pyr as they carried Hadrian back into his lair, her thoughts spinning. She was remembering Alasdair’s story and also the prophecy sent to Hadrian. Somewhere there was a solution to the riddle, if she could just figure it out.