In those lulls, they’d continued exploring their combustible chemistry, yet he’d still given no indication they would be exclusive. She maintained she would never accept anything less.

How much longer can I deny him sex? Especially when she’d begun losing her heart to him.

Last night, he’d murmured in her ear, “Refuse me, then, but we both know it’s inevitable. It has been since the first moment I saw you. From the first moment I scented you. . . .”

Jo gazed down at the moonlit currents streaming under the bridge. She and Rune were stuck at an impasse.

Why can’t he commit to me? Despite their sexual tension, they’d settled into a companionable ebb and flow. If one of them got discouraged, the other brought the fun. If one didn’t feel like talking, the other would pick up the slack.

They were becoming so attuned, they often finished each other’s sentences. The last time it’d happened, he’d given her a puzzled look. “Sometimes, it seems like you know me better than the allies I’ve fought beside for millennia—allies who can read my mind and speak telepathically to me.”

She’d smiled pleasantly, telling him with her expression: It’s because I’m your mate, sport. . . .

After Mount Hua, they’d awaited Nïx in Rio, laying up in a beachfront hotel. With Jo’s head on his chest, they’d listened to the waves roll in. She’d told him, “I want to know more about the symbols you draw.”

“Most people’s eyes glaze over if I talk runes. Do you recall any of the ones you’ve seen?”

She’d leaned up. “I can draw all of them.”

Smirk. “Sure you can.”

Glare. “Watch me.”

He’d been shocked when she’d drawn one—much less thirty. “You did remember them all!”

“Like it’s difficult?”

He’d translated them for her. Most were simple. “That one indicates purity of purpose. The second means victory—or rather, domination. That one means nightmare. The combinations are just as important as the rendering.”

Whenever they had time, he’d taught her more. As he sketched, he would grow relaxed, often giving her additional details about his mother. “She could have hated me, the son of a despised foe—not to mention that I was considered an abomination—but she adored me.”

As he’d spoken, Jo had experienced a flash of a memory: the sight of his mother smiling down at her son with utter love on her pretty face—and the fullness in Rune’s heart for his beloved “dam.” Jo had realized she might not remember all of her memory-dreams until something triggered her recollection.

He’d told Jo that his talisman had been a last gift from his mother, was his most cherished possession.

Then Jo had stolen it. Twice. “Rune, I’m sorry.”

“I got it back.” He’d brushed his knuckles along her jawline. “And more.”

Wondering if he’d confide in her, Jo had asked, “How did your mom die?”

He’d dropped his hand before it clenched into a fist. “Magh sent her to a brothel. Though my mother hadn’t transitioned into full immortality, she went so that Magh would spare my life. My dam was too young to survive the . . . demands.”

And then Magh had sold him to the same place. If his mother had died there, what had Rune lived through?

He never mentioned a word about that time in his life, but Jo had been getting glimpses from his blood—torture scenes that turned her stomach; no longer did she question his need to wipe out the Sylvan royal house.

His blood had also delivered glimpses of his allies. Jo had stopped delving into the past—reminders of Magh enraged him—and started asking about the Møriør.

He spoke about Orion in respectful tones, but he admitted he wished he knew his liege better. Rune’s manner grew more casual when he talked of his compatriots, like Darach Lyka—a real-live werewolf!

“His Lykae form is petrifying to most,” Rune had told her. “Darach is the primordial alpha, the largest and fiercest of their entire species, but he has little control over himself.”

Sian, a demon and now the King of Hells, was notoriously good-looking. “The expression ‘handsome as the devil’ was coined because of him.”

Rune had frowned when explaining his ally Kolossós. “I find him indescribable. Let’s put it this way: There are twelve seats at our table. For some Møriør, they’re merely places of honor. . . .”

Now Rune exhaled, recalling her attention to their surroundings. Yet again, he checked the band on his wrist. “Nïx isn’t there. And she’s not here.”

During their travels, they’d also searched for a lock of Valkyrie hair. Rune had told her the wraiths guarded Val Hall in exchange for it. When they’d braided the locks to a certain length, they could bend all Valkyries to their will. Rumor held the braid was nearly complete.

Death controlling life. Jo wished the wraiths all the best with that. “How much longer do we wait?” she asked him.

In a wry tone, he said, “Do you have something more pressing to do?” His eyes flickered as he said, “I know where I’d like to be instead.”

Her body responded as if he’d touched it. He continued to make comments about her supposed infatuation, but she felt like they were destined. How to convince him?

If he’d just commit to her, she’d sleep with him, and then his seal would break, proving what she’d known all along. He couldn’t deny evidence like that! Nothing could be more convincing—not her arguments, not her holding out.