Her anger and fighting spirit stilled wholly. Something deep within her understood. Her anxiety remained high over the risk of her mission, and her stomach churned knowing that Gadriel was putting himself in such danger, and yet, she understood. If this was truly the first glitter of hope in decades—if it had been her in their shoes—she would have stopped at nothing to see the mission through.

Hope was dangerous. Hope was reckless. Hope was essential.

Her eyes lit as she realized suddenly that his presence may come with more than a few perks. She shook her arm free once more, and this time he obliged. Amaris caught him off guard with her topical change. “Can I have one of your daggers?”

Gadriel’s face tightened in disapproval. “You let them disarm you?”

“They made a very persuasive argument as to why I can’t meet the royal family dressed with the ability to chop off their heads. That, and I was stripped and scrubbed naked. I didn’t have much choice in the matter.”

Gadriel was wearing no fewer than six blades, he informed her, though none of them were the heavy weight of a sword that might impede his flight. He winked like the perverse show-off he was as he showed her the glint of a knife strapped to his forearm, hidden up his sleeve. He fished a lightweight throwing knife from his boot. Amaris thanked him and tucked it securely against the small curvature of her breasts just beneath the front of her tightened bodice. Even if she was searched before meeting Moirai, no one would think to check her sternum.

The general touched her forearm lightly as he dragged a thumb over her exposed skin. It was so gentle.

“Stop touching me,” she said, but her command lacked conviction. He was fae. Her persuasion would have done nothing for him, even if she’d been trying to wield it.

She looked at him fully, ceaselessly amazed at how beautiful he was, irritating though he was. It would be much easier to glare at him if he hadn’t possessed such sharp, perfect features. Gadriel had the strongest jaw she’d ever seen, such bottomless eyes, such night-black hair. His eyes were gorgeously dark, as deep as the ocean’s trenches, identical to ones she’d known from her childhood. His dark eyes reminded her too much of Nox—everything reminded her too much of Nox. Maybe that was what kept her from stabbing him whenever he was particularly rude or difficult. This demon should count himself lucky to share any commonalities with an angel.

“Amaris?” he asked. Her name on his lips was a whisper.

She wanted to snap at him, but her tone came out gentler than she intended as she looked back at him. “Yes?”

He looked at her intently and she waited for his words, an unfamiliar want leaning against her ears. He finally said, “You look ridiculous.”