A Strange Hymn by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 41

I dose in Des’s arms, feeling his hands stroke my wings. I never used to be a fan of post-sex cuddling, but that was before the Bargainer became mine. Now I’m finding that I actually have quite an appreciation for it.

The flowers and water are back in their vases, but now hovering above us is a thick sheet of parchment and five separate paintbrushes, which are all painting at once. Where Des found the brushes, or the parchment, or the five little ceramic pots of paint that rest on a side table next to the bed, I have no idea.

Just like when he first started making his art for me, I’m completely enchanted.

The painting is quickly coming along, though it takes me minutes to figure out what, exactly, the image is of. Eventually, however, I realize I’m staring at feathers, lots and lots of iridescent feathers.

“You’re painting my wings,” I whisper.

“Mmm,” he says in response, running his hand over them again.

One of the paint brushes wanders away from the parchment, floating down to the side table next to me. It dips its bristles into one of the pots of paint, and then, once it’s coated with black paint, it floats up and over my body.

Before it makes it back to the parchment, a glob of the paint hits my shoulder.

“Des!”

He laughs, totally aware of what just happened.

“You did that on purpose!”

“Maybe,” he says evasively, a grin in his voice.

He brings his hand up to my shoulder, and using his thumb, rubs the paint into my skin.

I breathe the smell of him in, his scent mixed with mine. “I think we should skip more events,” I whisper.

He turns his face to me, his lips brushing my forehead. “Now that,” he says, “is an absolutely brilliant idea.”

I smile a little as I run my fingers over his chest, where his sweat still slickens it. I draw swirls into his skin before continuing on, my touch tracing over the tattoos that wrap down his arms. One day I’ll memorize the designs by heart.

He finishes the painting in silence, the two of us watching it come to completion. Once it’s finished, it and the paintbrushes all lower themselves to the side table.

“I have a secret to share,” Des murmurs, his mouth pressed close to my hair.

I still.

He’s shared secrets in the past, but only after prodding. For him to offer one up … When he did it earlier in the day, while I was getting healed, I thought it was a one-off event meant to distract me from the situation. But now, it’s possible he’s simply opening up to me more, trusting me more.

I angle my head to look up at him.

Where minutes ago he was carefree and content, now he looks somber.

“When I close my eyes, all I see is the shape of your face and the brightness of your smile. You are the stars in my dark sky, cherub.”

That isn’t at all what I expected to come out of his mouth. My heart, I’m finding, is simply not big enough to hold everything I feel for this man.

Des swallows gently. “You and I share many tragedies. Mothers who died too soon. Terrible fathers …”

He said something similar days ago.

He takes a deep breath. “My father was killing off all his heirs when my mother discovered she was pregnant,” Des begins. “She fled the palace before anyone else could discover this particular fact.

“The kingdom simply thought she’d deserted her king—a grave enough offense. And the slight didn’t go unnoticed. From everything I’ve learned, my mother had been my father’s favorite concubine. It must’ve bruised his ego.

“He spent years searching for her, but she’d made a career for herself as a spy; she knew how to hide.

“She raised me in Arestys, shielding the truth of our identities and the extent of our power from the world.

“She did a good job hiding us, but … I exposed us.” He says this with such guilt.

“As soon as he discovered our existence, my father came for us, and—he killed her.”

I feel horror closing up my throat.

Des’s eyes are far away, as though he’s seeing the memory unfold all over again. He runs a hand over his face. “I was fifteen when I watched my mother die.”

I can’t even fathom …

“Des, I’m so sorry.”

Has a sorry ever, in the history of the world, made a situation like this better? And yet I can’t not say it.

He blinks several times, pulling himself out of the past. “I killed my father.”

My eyes snap to his. For several seconds I don’t breathe.

Des … killed his father?

So many emotions bubble up. Surprise, horror, fear … kinship.

You and I share many tragedies.

Now I understand. His father and mine both died by our hands. It makes me wonder anew what he saw that first day he met me. I always assumed my depravity had to have shocked him a bit. I hadn’t imagined this.

“Was it an accident?” I ask.

He laughs. “No,” he says, his voice bitter, “it was quite deliberate.”

My skin prickles. “Why are you telling me this?”

His hand slides around my waist, locking me to his side. “Sometimes I see you, and the past is alive. It overlays who you are and what you do.” He squeezes me closer, almost to the point of pain. “I’m reminded of my own old wounds, and I feel … I feel my vengeance rising.

“I cannot change my past, and I cannot change yours. I cannot even stop you from getting hurt … but I can make others atone for your pain.” He says this last part so silently, so malevolently that a shiver escapes me.

That’s foreboding.

“What are you thinking of, Des?” I ask him. Because it’s clear to me that he’s scheming.

He glances down at me, his white hair and silver eyes looking more Otherworldly than ever.

“Nothing, cherub. Nothing at all.”