The pages of Carlton's journal crinkled in Faine's grasp, and with each she turned, the more information she absorbed about random missions or notes he made. She smiled when she came across the page that detailed their first meeting; the note read:

Faine

Feliram, purple, sense of humor, called me a man whore

White horns, intimidating eyes, soft skin, can drink me under the table

Be wary, could be an assassin or thief, might even be a spy

She keeps staring at me like she's wondering what I'm writing

Faine, Faine, Faine

A silent laugh left Faine's throat. She remembered that moment, sitting at the bar with her hand wrapped around the handle of a tankard. Carlton had spoken to her before, the moment she referred to him as a man whore, and had departed to use the facilities. She'd spotted him across the room a moment later, scribbling something in the leather-bound journal before shutting it and stuffing it in his pocket.

She never considered he might've written about her. Or believed that she was anything other than an ordinary feliram having a drink after another long day of washing dishes in one of the community kitchens in Isflean. Just one of the many jobs Faine inherited before her entire life changed with a one-hundred-year promise. Broken after a few hours.

Faine ran her fingers over the rough bumps of his handwriting. Her eyes were growing heavy with every second she looked at the pages, and night had fallen long ago. Movement from Ilian's room stopped hours before Faine sat down on her bed and flipped through the journal, though she could've sworn she heard a door shut somewhere.

The journal fit nicely in the back left corner of her nightstand drawer and she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She reeked of the cologne she wore to the banquet, hadn't bathed as the meeting came first, and the first thing she should've done was soak. There were more important matters to deal with, apparently.

She grabbed the hem of her shirt, pulled it up the point it reached the underwire of her chest binder, and froze when the door burst open. Ilian must've been close to running for he didn't stop immediately and came to a stop just short of her chaise in the corner of the room, squished in near the door. There wasn't enough room for her clothes in the armoire, so she had to improvise.

Sweat soaked through his shirt, starting at his chest and casting down to a jagged point. A small blot circled his stomach, and his hair, normally unkempt, was more of a mess than usual.

"It's a little late for a run, don't you think?" Faine asked. She tugged her shirt over her head the rest of the way.

Ilian's stare went to her stomach, and his eyes widened. "What is that?" he panted.

"What is what?" Faine looked down but saw nothing other than the purple skin she saw every day. She spun, seeing if whatever he witnessed had gone to her back, but he inhaled sharply.

Ilian gripped onto her shoulders and forced her to remain there. "What...why...you were whipped?"

Shit. She'd completely forgotten. "That's none of your business." Faine shrugged herself away from his grip and tugged the shirt back over her head.

The smell caused her to cringe, but that was less important than him viewing any more of what was on her body. At least he hadn't focused on the many scars up and down her arms or those on her legs. The bumped ridge on her left thigh from someone slamming a dagger directly into her skin and yanking it right back out.

Ilian scoffed. "Actually, that happens to be part of my business. You are still my shadow...and I demand you tell me what happened." He pointed a shaking finger at her.

Faine arched a brow and lowered his hand away from her face. Something wasn't right, something...Ilian wasn't behaving as he normally did. Either that or the sight of the past wounds on her body were enough to unsettle him to the core. It was possible; he'd never shown her anything other than the kindness of his heart. For someone like him to ask if she needed help with killing her abusive husband—that was all Faine needed to know about his character.

"Okay, fine," she said. "Yes, I was whipped. One time, when I was arrested, my punishment was to either endure a whip or pay a fine. I was poor, I couldn't pay the fine, so I took the whipping instead." She waved her hand in a nonchalant fashion. "It's not a big deal, every immortal body is covered in scars."

That didn't answer the question as to why he barged in. Why he went on a run so late and why he took long enough to make himself sweat twice over. His eyes gleamed to the point of near bursting, the words he was keeping built up inside were about to release dangerously into the room and scare Faine to the point she wished she never heard them. At least she imagined that's what Ilian was building up to.

"Immortal bodies only scar if terribly wounded," Ilian proclaimed. "The whipping must've been bad enough to scar, and whatever happened here—" He reached forward and tugged on her shirt to view the large, dark scar running across her abdomen. Faine didn't bother stopping him as he examined it with his eyes. "What did happen here?"

"Anybody would scar if they had to hold in their guts," Faine said. She shrugged and rested her hands on her hips. "I survived though, that's all that matters."

Ilian yanked her shirt back down and ran his hands through his hair, pacing back and forth in her room. She watched him carefully. "This is what I mean. This is exactly what I came here to discuss," he muttered, seemingly to himself but Faine heard every word.

"Excuse me?"

"You're too careless. Celestia won't let me go to Isflean to ensure nothing happens to either of you, and I can't stand it." Ilian grabbed onto her shoulders again, coming short of shaking them. "To stop a bombing means putting yourself in harm's way and it's only superstition that Saskia will wait until the marriage ceremony for the high elf son. What if she enacts the plan while you're there in the palace? What will you do?"

His stare held daggers that made it difficult for Faine to maintain eye contact. She stared at the wall instead and pursed her lips together in preparation to come up with the right answer. "I'll...die?"

Wrong answer.

"This is why I need to go. If something happens..."

"Ilian," Faine demanded with a roll of her eyes. He released her and paced again, this time biting his fingernails. "Ilian." Still, no response. "Is this how you behave with Ginevra or is it just me that has to deal with this?" She splayed her arms out at her sides but he didn't respond to that question, either.

She allowed him to pace for a moment and tried to digest exactly what was happening. It wasn't the scars that brought this on; it wasn't his imagination running wild and putting him in that moment when her blood streamed from the open wounds and onto the rock floor of the cell while the other prisoners watched with bated breath to see if the purple feliram would survive.

It wasn't the thought of Faine screaming for help, for someone to help her while holding her guts in blood-stained arms. Instead, his panic was at the result of her being sent to Isflean. Without him. Every mission they'd done happened together and Faine hadn't exactly worked cleanly. Only so many things were capable of change when she transferred from one crime guild to the next, but changing the way she went about missions wasn't one of them.

Ilian absorbed every bit of that. He was as much of the investigator as she was.

"You're forgetting one very important fact, Ilian," Faine spoke, loud enough for him to hear through the racing thoughts in his head. Fear was not overcome in whispers or soft tones. He turned his head to look at her and his sanity promised a deep breath. "I've been alive for over one hundred and fifty years, long before you came around. We've only known each other for a month and a half and you're already worried about me?" She laughed as if that was preposterous. "I've done many worse things you don't know about...your knowledge hasn't even scratched the surface."

He sat down on the edge of her chaise and put his face in his hands. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I can't stand the thought of losing anyone, even people I...never mind." Ilian dragged his hands down his face.

The journal hiding in the back of Faine's desk held more than Carlton's missions or small notes to remember for later. It also detailed his fears, worries, and nightmares. Too many of them involved losing Faine, but he hadn't kept those concerns to himself. Their late-night conversations detailed exactly what Carlton was going through, the same thing Ilian feared. It wasn't love driving both of them to care for her; it was attachment. Routine.

Faine blew out her cheeks and shuffled over to the nightstand. The drawer creaked when it opened and the floorboards moaned when Faine sat against them, directly in front of Ilian. His face was still in his hands but he watched her through his fingers as she flipped to the exact page in the journal where Carlton had described their first meeting.

"What is this?" Ilian asked as he read it.

"Remember the love of my life I told you about? The one I was with for ten years?" Her heart raced in her chest. Revealing this would either become the best or the worst thing she ever did. Ilian was still a member of Silver Willow and if he put all the pieces together; if he discovered Faine was here for more than to protect herself...

Ilian nodded and read it over again. The second time around, he smiled.

"This is his journal," Faine explained. "He was a member of Silver Willow one hundred years ago, and this journal details all the notes he took about his missions, and his first meeting with me." She reached up and tapped her finger on the page. "If you read through this more, you'll discover that he had the same fears as what you're having. Worrying I'll be hurt, or worse if I'm not careful."

He stared at her for a long moment, too long, and flipped to the next page. "You didn't tell me he was a member of Silver Willow."

"I didn't want you to believe I was here for that reason. For him. I came on my own accord."

She wanted to tell him everything, from the true reason Carlton died to the hundred-year deal she agreed to on the account that he'd get the chance to live. The lie. Zebulon. Rising Eternity. The truth sat on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't dare taste it.

"Look, Ilian, if this is because I kissed you at the banquet—"

"No," Ilian interrupted immediately. "No, no, no. That's not it. That's not why I'm sitting here now...making a complete fool of myself." He shut the journal and tossed it back into her lap. Faine was nearly too late to catch it. Ilian sighed and braced his hands on his knees to stand and distance himself from her.

The spot he chose, next to her bed, was far enough away that he wasn't afraid to look at her. Really look at her. Faine stood slowly and clutched the journal over her stomach; Ilian watched it as if he could visibly see the scar through her shirt and he really was imagining what it'd be like at that moment, to watch her fumble for her life while pleading for help.

"Are you sure? I figured you might've developed feelings...or something—I didn't—I—" Faine stopped herself before she said too much, or what she said got out of hand. Suddenly, the room felt too small, the journal was too heavy, Ilian's stare held too much shock and embarrassment that he rushed to the door, nearly tripped over her nightstand, and grabbed onto the handle. "Ilian, wait," she blurted before he left.

There was something different about his scent. It laced with fear, yes, but something else was clouding the normal clarity he normally carried. That wasn't influenced by the suffocating thoughts in his head, but those themselves were caused by something else entirely.

Faine understood why his eyes were so wide, why his breathing was so rapid, why he couldn't seem to make any movements without jerking around.

"Ilian," she said quietly. "Are you drunk?"

"No," he retorted immediately, but his voice shook. "No, I'm not drunk. I mean, I don't drink. I had one. Only one. Eliphas said I looked stressed, he gave it to me, and—"

His hand slipped from the knob and he stumbled forward, directly for Faine. There was nothing else for her to do than catch him when he collapsed into her, and when his body crashed into hers, she angled him towards the bed before his weight became too much to carry. Sidestepping the anger—for now—she rested him onto the edge of her bed and lifted his legs over the side so he was laying down.

The room was likely still spinning, but no danger came from that angle as long as he remained where he was. Ilian stared at the ceiling like the entire world had turned upside down in a matter of seconds.

"This is very simple," Faine said in her most reassuring tone. "The alcohol will take no more than a few hours to wear off, but until then, you need to stay put."

"I've never had your wine before, I don't know what it does."

"Ingested at large amounts, it can kill a mortal." Faine shrugged but forced herself to slap on a reassuring expression when Ilian's eyes widened even further. "But that won't happen to you. The worst is vomiting, chills, feeling lightheaded—it'll wear off before you know it." She untied the laces of his boots and slid them off his feet. This wasn't the first time she had to deal with a reeling mortal after they'd ingested wine. Immortals thought it was entertaining to watch them stumble around with fear in their eyes. Some claimed they saw their worst nightmares. "Why did Eliphas give you the wine?"

Ilian swallowed as his boots clunked to the floor. His hands fisted in her sheets as he stared at the ceiling, and Faine realized this would take longer than a few minutes to deal with. And the one night she had to leave early in the morning to head for Isflean in a horse-drawn carriage with only Ametrine as her accomplice. Faine was learning how to play one simple game.

How tired would she be the next day?

After so many rounds, the game got tiring. This night was about to be another, and she had a feeling it was about to be the worst.

"I should've known what he was trying to do," Ilian began. "He has tried it before, but I've been smart enough to avoid it. So many others have tried it, too, I just...I wasn't paying attention. I was too worried about you leaving for Isflean."

From where she stood, Faine crossed her arms over her chest and watched him carefully. So many thoughts were running through her head that she couldn't narrow in on one, the prominent threat being who she'd have to kill in order to ensure Ilian never faced a goblet of immortal wine again. He was respected around Silver Willow, but not to the point they wished to see him as anything other than he was.

The other thought plaguing Faine...Ilian's constant worry about her leaving without him. There was so much she still needed to tell him and wouldn't for her sake and that of Rising Eternity's. Even if he grew to care about her in such a capacity, he loved Silver Willow and his own safety more.

"There is still much you don't know about me, Ilian," Faine whispered into the night. "I have lived many lifetimes beyond your own and I have done many things that, if you knew about them, would drive you insane. Visiting the high elf palace doesn't scratch the surface of what I've done, but I'm not saying your fears aren't necessary. All fears have origins, and all needed if we wish to steel ourselves.

"All I can promise you is that I'll be safe in Isflean. I cannot stay here; I've already pleaded myself for this with Ametrine and no one else is better for it. But as much as you don't believe me, I'll be fine. As you will be once this wine leaves your system."

She placed her hand on his arm. It wasn't unnatural to see anyone laying in her bed, what made her view so strange was the fact that Ilian was there, looking up at her with too innocent eyes. Everyone else she'd ever looked down upon didn't carry the same lightness he did, and the fact he hadn't shown fear until necessary, after all these days of smelling it on him, proved how strong Ilian was. How Silver Willow shaped him to the man he became.

"How can I avoid this?" Ilian asked. His stare never left the ceiling. "How can I avoid the effects of the wine in the future?"

Faine no longer felt like a bath. She walked around the opposite side of the bed and tugged back the sheets. The mattress hugged against her body when she laid down next to him, and immediately, Faine's eyes turned heavy.

"The only way I know is for a claiming, besides becoming an immortal yourself. But I already know your standing on that."

"I'm screwed in this life. From the day I'm born and until the day I die, nothing will ever go my way. Why did I have to be born mortal? Why couldn't I be like the rest of you? Lucky and immortal."

The wine was talking. Not Ilian. Faine scooted closer to him and propped herself up on her elbow. "You need to get some sleep, Ilian. If you do, the wine will wear off faster." That was a lie, but convincing enough for the confused mortal to slide himself under the sheets. His scent softened to the point of contentment and for a second, his body stopped shaking.

"Promise me you'll be safe when you're gone," Ilian said once his body settled.

Faine was staring at the ceiling when he spoke, returned to her side of the bed and listening to his steady breathing. She turned her head, shifting against the pillow, and Ilian was staring at her through the fog of the wine. It wasn't unsteady or fearful as every other look had been. This one was purely Ilian and similar to the one he gave her in the alleyway on their second meeting. She remembered that occurrence fondly.

"I promise," Faine whispered.

As he drifted off to sleep, one thought refused to leave her mind. The same doubts carried the beginning of her relationship with Carlton, but she was another feliram then. At this point, her questions had perfect reasoning. Why did he care so much? What had she done to make him obsess over whether she'd come back to the base alive?

After everything she did to get to this point, after betraying Ilian and lying to him for so long, he didn't deserve this. She stared at his handsome face and watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. His hands were tucked underneath the side of his face and as the wine controlled his dreams, he twitched and furrowed his brows. It would be a long night regardless if he was awake or asleep.

Faine lifted her arm and reached towards him. Her fingers hardly pressed against the side of his face, but the warmth of his skin soaked into her like water into bread and she ran that touch down the sharp plane of his cheekbone, then over his lips before halting at his chin. Everything was changing. Too much was holding her back from wanting to go to Isflean, and everything lied in that handsome face.

Protecting him was key and murdering Eliphas would have to wait until she returned. Someway, somehow, she needed a plan to convince Ilian that claimings weren't all they were made up to be. It wouldn't hurt, they would have no attachment to each other, but it meant no immortal could harm him in any way, shape, or form.

To protect him in that way would be an honor. Faine grazed his forehead with her touch, felt the soft strands of his hairbrush up against the back of it, and released when he twitched hard enough to grunt softly. Nightmares. She kept to her side of the bed and waited with bated breath for Ilian to wake. One catastrophe at a time.