Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts #3) - Sara Wolf Page 0,97

something idly about saltwater being easier to float in, and she’s right. Floating in the warmth of the ocean is nothing like trying to float in the bone-chillingly cold rivers of a Cavanos forest. The spring Lucien and I bathed in was beautiful, certainly, but the ocean has its own charm. I start to think, as my conniving brain is wont to do. If I could live anywhere, if at the end of all this death and destruction I could start over like I’d always wanted to, in a shack somewhere no one knows me, it would be on the ocean. Somewhere close to the ocean. I’d adore this view every day. To fall asleep to the sound of the waves, and wake up to the sound of the waves, to bathe in sun and sand and a sound that drowns out every worry—that’s my new idea of perfection.

The blue sky—Evlorasin’s up there somewhere.

Varia’s out there somewhere. Killing people. Causing suffering. Suffering herself.

The tide brings a soft something against the top of my floating head, and I look up. Dark, wet hair, a proud chin.

“Lucien,” I say, staying still. His smile is soft as he puts his hands beneath my back, holding me as I float and he stands, acting as a rock, a dock, an anchor to the world. My anchor. I don’t know where Malachite’s gone—probably to the beach to dry off like a disgruntled puppy. But really, I don’t need to know. All that exists now is Lucien’s comforting presence, the sweet warmth of the water’s embrace and his hands on my back. I can feel my hair floating all around my head like a halo, flickers of gold catching in the sun and in his dark hawk eyes.

My own voice sounds muffled through my submerged ears as I ask quietly, “What will we do? When it’s over?”

“A question for the ages.” There’s a beat, and then Lucien smiles down at me. “Eat? What’s the human food you like most?”

“Cinnamon sweetrounds,” I answer immediately.

“Then the lady will have a plate of them,” he asserts, then pauses. “We could always get married.”

“After all that fuss I went through being a Spring Bride?” I huff. “Absolutely not. We can do a few hundred years of trial runs, first.”

“I might not be around for all of it.” He laughs. My smile pulls at my lips, my eyes.

“And with any luck, neither will I,” I say.

It’s more than just a dry joke. It means, after it’s over, I’ll be human. No matter what, once Varia and the valkerax are stopped, I’ll become human. My life with Lucien after this, all human. All mortal. All pain and slow healing and wrinkles and old age and sagging. And I’m dying for every bit of it. Repeatedly. Until our goal can be achieved.

Lucien seems to always know when I’m getting too lost in my own unheart. I don’t know who taught him, or if he just knows me by now—my tells, my expressions. The price of showing him my best and worst moments, I suppose. He scoops me out of the water easily, arms straining but strong, and smiles down at me.

“Busy thinking, are you?” he asks lightly. My face heats, unbearably hot despite the water.

“Trying to,” I sniff. “But a certain someone with his hands on my thighs is making it very difficult.”

He leans in, dark hair dripping into his eyes, dropping cool water on my burning face as his lips skim mine.

“Shall I make it more so?” he murmurs.

“And why would you want to do that?” I ask innocently.

“Because you’re gorgeous, you silly thing.”

His fingers tighten into my legs, pressing the lush skin there like feather pillows under strain and all I can think about is a bed, with him in it, with me in it, and I give in first, for once. He tastes like salt, like honey and bread, and a flick of my tongue on his and the moment changes. His eyes search mine, and I search his face, looking for permission.

We give it to each other with wordless smirks.

And then I’m squirming out of his arms and both of us are racing for the sand, for our shoes, for the steps, Malachite calling after us but both of us ignoring it, ignoring everything but peering into each volcanic rock room of the Archives’ long hall looking for somewhere safe, somewhere just for us. A perfect room is the one with a bed— a cot, really—and a window overlooking