Page 45 of Their Wicked Cage

Arkyn disappeared into the night again. More shadow than male.

He’s a much better sword catcher than I originally thought.

And Achlys… he’s trotting around as a fox as if he didn’t just save me from certain pain.

As for me? I can’t stop thinking about what it might feel like to have Riven pinning me down. These intrusive thoughts make my cheeks flame hotter and hotter, regardless of the cold wind nipping at them. I press my hands to my face in the hopes they’ll cool me down, but it’s hopeless.

Riven has awoken something within my body that I cannot put back to sleep.

Even with knowledge of his reputation, there’s a small part of me that believes I might be the exception.

Not the rule.

When we finally make it back to Rosemarie’s grave, I do my best to push all thoughts of Riven and his body from my mind. It’s a losing battle, but I kneel anyway and drape the braided garland along the top, whispering a prayer to Death. If Riven hears me, he doesn’t say a word. He must be too focused on using the snow to scrub the wraith’s blood from his hands, his neck, his face. With his cheeks splattered in black and his hair disheveled from the brawl, he almost looks like a warrior god come to rest after a long day at war.

He catches me staring at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say incriminatingly quick, cursing myself under my breath.

He squints, clearly not believing me.

I don’t give him a chance to press me on it as I busy myself with carving a circle through the snow around the gravestone and filling it with salt.

“That doesn’t look big enough for the two of us.”

I stiffen. “What do you mean by ‘the two of us’?”

“I thought it’d be helpful if I accompanied you to speak with Rosemarie.”

My pulse stutters at the idea. “You thought what?”

“Is that going to be an issue, little witch?”

“Yes.” I wet my lips, buying time I don’t have. “I’ve never brought someone living along with me to summon the dead.”

“You haven’t?” he asks, tilting his head, something sharper than curiosity in his gaze.

“No, Riven, I haven’t,” I snap. “I never had the need. Every time I used my magic in this way, it was to⁠—”

I cut myself off before I can admit such a terrible truth to him.

“Was to…?” he prompts.

I ignore him and the memory of that poor girl as I rummage through my knapsack and pull out a blade. If I can start the ritual with him firmly outside of the summoning circle, he’ll have no choice but to wait until I return from the Threshold.

With a deep slice across my forearm, I draw several bloody runes inside the circle counter-clockwise. I toss the knife away and steady my breathing before asking Riven for the bloodshade. He withdraws it from a vial and hands it to me, watching with rapt attention as I place the blossom on my tongue and consume it.

“From shores where damned flowers bloom, I call Rosemarie Thaelon forth from her earthen tomb,” I chant. “A fragile line I dare tread to summon Rosemarie Thaelon from the dead.”

The runes flare to life, igniting bright white like witchlights buried beneath the snow.

Just as the ground below my feet begins to quake, Riven leaps into the circle and grabs my hand.

“You fool!” I cry, desperately trying to wrench myself from his grip. It’s to no avail. “I don’t think I can do this with you here. It’s not safe for either of us. I⁠—”

“You can do it.” He says the words firmly, with such belief in me, that I almost believe him myself. “You have to do it, Gwyn. Summon her.”

His eyes bore into mine.