“Bless the Stars! You’re alive,” Corina sobbed. She smelled of vanilla and fresh fruit.
“Corina.” Astraia smiled, returning the embrace.
“How? The explosion? They said no one survived.”
“I know. It’s a long story. But I am alive.” Astraia’s smile faded, remembering her failure.
“Oh, but we must have a feast! We must celebrate your return!” Corina clasped her hands together in excitement.
“No. Corina, please. You mustn't tell anyone I am alive. Please promise me,” Astraia pleaded, staring at the cook.
“Of course, as you wish, but what about—”
Astraia held up a hand, silencing Corina. “Not today,” she said—an order, not a request.
“Someday, my girl, you will have to face the past. And I hope to live to see that day.” The cook gave Astraia a stern look before embracing her once more. Corina insisted Astraia take an entire cake with her as she left, wrapping it in a cloth that smelled of cinnamon, and kissed both of her cheeks.
Caelan did not say much as he leaned in the doorway, watching. But his eyes never left Astraia’s face, a wistful smile pulling at his mouth.
As they left the kitchen, Caelan informed her he regrettably had captain duties to attend to but would return later for dinner. As he departed, he kissed her forehead—so soft and familiar it ached—and left without another word.
Astraia made her way back down the hallway, passing her painting once more.
Caelan had never been part of her plan. She had assumed he had moved on and married some duchess, which was precisely what his parents would have insisted. But he did exactly what Astraia expected of the Caelan she once knew. Loyalty to love, even in death, had been kept alive like an ember in a locked room.
She was not sure what terrified her more—how deeply he had mourned her, or how easy it would be to fall back into his warmth.
Steeling herself, Astraia pushed open the doors before her, only to find Draven was no longer in the bed. Panic rushed through her as she stepped over the threshold, careful to remain quiet. She placed the cake on a table and unsheathed her dagger.
The sheets from the bed had been pulled back with no sign of blood or a struggle. The glass doors overlooking Virellia were open to the balcony, the wind rustling the gossamer curtains that lined either side of the doors. Astraia surveyed the remainder of the room, deciding there was no imminent threat when the washroom door flew open.
Steam billowed from the doorway to reveal a half-exposed bounty hunter, with only a towel around his waist. His skin was damp and gleamed in the sunlight, accentuating every curve of his muscular arms and chest. A kaleidoscope of tattoos adorned both arms and webbed their way across parts of his chest and back. Scars of various sizes marred his perfectly honed body, faded to white from time.
Astraia could sense Power rising from her core, stretching, ready to erupt into life with just a thought. She cursed, sheathing her dagger.
“I could have killed you,” she said, irritation coating her words.
“I would love to see you try, Starborne.” He smirked, not bothering to fix his disheveled wet hair as he padded over to the bed.
“And maybe you could try to be civilized for once and, oh, I don’t know, put on clothes before you parade around in front of the entire city of Volpes.” She waved her hand at the open balcony doors, the other hand resting on her hip in exasperation.
“Am I making you uncomfortable, Starborne?” He grinned, grabbing clean clothes from his satchel, and glanced at Astraia.
“Don’t flatter yourself, bounty hunter,” she retorted, crossing her arms.
“Perhaps you should have been civilized and knocked?” He grinned as he strode over to her, standing only inches from her.
Astraia could smell the eucalyptus scented soap mixed with his familiar scent of pine and smoke, as if the luxury of Volpes could not fully purge the wildness from him. She refused to look past his waist, all too aware that a desperately small towel was the only fabric attempting to hide his frame. Instead, she trailed her eyes up his sculpted bare chest, old and new scars ornamenting his tanned skin.
“Who did this to you?” she whispered, trailing her fingertips across the pale lines.
His muscles flexed in response, and he exhaled deeply.
“Those who would justify slaughter for control,” he said coolly.
“You were a soldier, weren’t you? No one but a soldier fights like you did against the wraith.” Her voice quivered, afraid he might confirm her suspicions or continue to lie.
“Yes, years ago,” he replied.
