“Maker?” I ignore all their flaws among one another and try to understand.
“The magic of hell is fueled by the realm itself. Men like Roman and Zilo, they’re impossibly strong within the realm of hell. But I’m a maker. I can carry that magic with me. I’ll make our entryway for us. It’ll be safe and easy. You do not have to worry.” His hand lifts toward me, but he doesn’t touch. He’s polite and sensitive.
How the hell did Avian end up with these two obtuse alpha-holes? They have the emotional capacity of a burnt hotdog. The personality to match too.
“Just do it here. I haven’t heard a single footstep in miles.” Roman’s serious for once. A thin line of concern is against his dark eyebrows. And stranger than that, his long fingers touch Avian’s upper arm in a comforting way I didn’t even realize he was capable of.
It’s then that the light of the moon brightens the white lines that cut across Roman’s back. They’re jagged and harsh. Deeper in some places and longer in others.
They’re scars.
My stomach jolts at the sight of the viciousness marring his golden skin. My insides crumble, but the men don’t give me time to process the thousands of wounds this man carries with him every day.
“If I’m caught, they’ll singe my magic,” Avian whispers, his silver eyes big with concern as he looks up at the man at his side.
I want to look away when Rome’s thumb brushes back and forth along the smooth, sun-kissed skin of Avian’s lined bicep. I want to. But I don’t.
Roman doesn’t reassure his friend. He doesn’t seem to be the type to understand or offer that kind of comfort.
But he does keep his fingers gentle against Avian. It’s the smallest connection. It’s an unspoken passing of comradery.
And it seems to be all that the maker needs.
For he lifts his index finger just above his head. It sparks with golden and charcoal colors that burn into the night air. He cascades his magic down in one long swooping line that turns to fire right before my very eyes.
Within a matter of seconds, a perfect circle is burning in glittering sunbursts like a tunnel into the depths of pure shadows and emptiness. It’s nothing short of incredible artisan magic.
“To enter, I’ll have to lower our wards, and you’ll have to be in your true form.” Avian turns to me, and my heart dead falls right into the deepest part of my turning stomach.
“I-I can’t do that.” I shake my head so fast my pale blonde locks shift along my face.
“What?” Zilo’s rumbling tone is hinting at aggression as it seems to always be doing.
It isn’t fucking helping right now.
“Shift. Every second of our time that you waste is another chance for Avian’s magic to be spotted. Fucking change. Now!” Roman takes a hard pounding step into my space, and my nails bite into my palm at his storming closeness.
“Calm down, Rome,” Avian warns.
“Listen to your friend,” I whisper through clenched teeth.
Roman’s thick eyebrows lift high, and I can physically feel his power radiating off his smooth chest. It’s a spark in his eyes. He wants the altercation. It’s something that gives him life. Maybe that’s all he has.
But right now is not the time.
“I physically can’t shift,” I say as rationally and steadily as I can.
“You can’t orwon’t?” Zilo tilts his head low, and though he isn’t as forceful as his friend here, I know he’s just as powerful. More powerful from the looks of him.
“I can’t. I try and I feel it build but just…never happens.” I swallow hard at the self-conscious confession that I’ve kept secret from everyone I’ve ever met.
It’s my secret. And I just gave it away to three strangers for the simple price of early admission into hell.
“Ah, so it’s performance anxiety, huh?” Rome’s perfectly snarling smirk is right back against his lips.
“I fucking hate you,” I finally tell him.
“I know.” He leans into me. His warm words wash over my neck as he whispers once more. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
