She tilts her sketch pad my way. We stand side by side now, elbows on the counter.
Esme has evolved from the teen with a garage-sale sewing machine to a full-scale designer. Turns out, the dry cleaning is just the storefront and a small part of the business.
“Harpies too?” I ask.
“I mean, it technically works for us.” She fiddles with the corner of the page as she contemplates the drawing. “Butwearing a top when we shift is uncomfortable. Because of the feathers. Best to be topless. Or completely naked.”
I must make a noise because her head whips up and a delicious blush infuses her cheeks.
“Sorry! Too much info.” Esme straightens, running an agitated hand through her hair. “If you saw me in my other form, you’d get it.”
I have, and I do. Thinking back on the time when she changed for me, I have to bite my lip to stifle a grunt. Her heather-colored feathers created a soft coat over her skin, covering her nipples but provocative in the way they shaped perfectly to her body.
“Oh goddess, that sounded suggestive.” Esme’s voice is tight. “I-I swear I didn’t mean to, like, proposition you just now.”
Her words have my eyes narrowing, studying her closer. I note again how oddly Esme is acting. Normally, she’s bubbly confidence. But there’s an air of anxiety in her words and jerky movements as she shuffles farther behind the counter and adjusts small items that don’t need to be rearranged.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
She freezes in the act of arranging pencils in a cup on the counter.
“Wrong?” she repeats, then covers her face with her hands and groans. “Yes. Something is wrong.”
“What?” Whatever it is, I’ll fix it. Maybe that can be my role. I’ll solve all the problems Esme faces. Then, I’ll go when she has no more problems and her life is entirely perfect. “Tell me.”
She drops her hands and stares hard, studying me and no doubt seeing a husk of a man. With a quick step, she’s next to me, her palms settling overtop one of mine. It’s all I can do not to drop my head and press my forehead against the back of her hand. Try to imprint the shape of her bones on my skin.
“The problem is,” she sighs, “I like you, Lee. A lot.”
Her words are lightning, infusing my body with a painful explosion of energy.
“But,” she continues, “I’ve devoted my life to someone else. And I don’t want to betray them. Not that I’m sure I would be. Not bylikingyou. But I also might … as time goes by … well, anyway, I’m sorry. Just know you’re not doing anything wrong.”
Who are they?I long to growl.Can I kill them?
With the hand that’s not under hers, I rub the bridge of my nose—hard—trying to dispel the fury and lethal rage that someone else has her heart.
“Lee?”
The sudden press of her palm on my chest makes me flinch, causing my thumb to bump my glasses. They slip off my face.
“Oh shoot,” Esme says as the thick spectacles clatter to the floor. “Let me grab those.”
“No. Wait.” I lunge forward the same time Esme bends over, but she’s too fast for me, her strong fingers plucking the lenses up from where they fell.
When she straightens, her body is too close, brushing against mine. Through my flannel, I feel the soft curves of her breasts, the gentle press of her hip, and the steadying pressure of her hand. Rage bleeds to desperate wanting. She smells like warmth on the wind, and my throat aches, holding back the groan of longing.
Curse The Winged One’s tricks. I’ve missed you, Esme.
She offers a rueful smile as her eyes meet mine, but the expression falters, as if disconcerted by our proximity.
“Your eyes,” she murmurs, her gaze fixed on mine. “That blue …”
And that’s when I notice the glow on her skin. A reflection from my gaze, shining bright with passion for her. With want and need and love. No spelled lenses to mute the vibrant color and block out the mystical reaction I have in her proximity.
Without the shield of magic-infused glass, I reveal more than my feelings.
With the Blaythorn blue, I’ve revealed myself.
