“Do you feel that, Scratch?” Her eyes were so bright, so honey gold. “Do you?”

Scratch followed that body, those eyes, those sounds, repeating the things that made Brella’s inhalations speed and hitch. She touched everything within reach, soft and hard touches, pinches and strokes, because she could, because she wanted to, because this was an honor, a privilege, being here with Brella, being able to touch the woman who had awakened her like sunrise. The woman who had made her laugh and think and come, and brought her to a place out of reality with impossible creatures and soft grasses. She touched, and she listened as Brella said “yes, Scratch,” and “just like that,” and “oh-oh, yes,” and “please, please don’t stop,” and came to her climax shaking and moaning Scratch’s name as if she were a god made of starlight. Like they both were brand-new gods in a scrambled night sky, renamed over and over and over.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“I want to go over it again.”

Brella groaned, dragging her feet in the dirt. “No, Scratch. We have it down.”

“Not nearly. I don’t want James to run. We have to be gentle.”

Brella leaned against a tree. She had said they would reach the blood gate by twilight and Scratch was doing everything she could to delay them. It wasn’t that she wasn’t eager to see James; she was, of course. But so much had changed in the two days since they last were together. She didn’t want to spook him.

“I know, sweetheart,” Brella cooed. Scratch preened. Brella dropped the pet name every few moments now, like pebbles marking a trail. “But he’s your best friend. He’ll listen.”

“But what if he doesn’t?” she whined, reaching for Brella and resting her head on the other woman’s chest. It was so novel, to be able to touch her like this. It felt illicit.

“Then we’ll hold him down and shove him through, whether he likes it or not.”

“Simple. Elegant.”

“Yes, well.” Brella patted her on the back. “Of the two of us, I’m the real strategist.”

“I suppose, after everything, I can’t disagree.“ The word hung unspoken in her mouth, tasting of rot: octagon.

“It was an accomplishment, Scratch. Though, as for what it accomplished . . .”

“You should have left me in the dungeons.”

Brella’s hands were so firm on Scratch’s back. “It’s not about penance. It’s about doing better. Making things better for the people you’ve harmed.”

“By fighting my own people.” She mashed her face into Brella’s shirt, feeling the warmth underneath. “Deposing my own king.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

She leaned away, peering into Brella’s amber eyes. “For?”

“You’re in an impossible situation. I don’t envy you.”