Finn laughs, low and warm, and slides into the water beside me. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him even through the warmth of the spring.
“Your turn to be red, Trouble,” he murmurs near my ear. “I like it.”
Two Eds settle at the pool’s edge. Watching.
Great. We have an audience.
Torric goes next.
He doesn’t make a show of it like Finn did. He just… strips. Efficient. Practical. Like he’s done this a thousand times and can’t be bothered with modesty.
But there’s nothing practical about the way he looks.
He’shuge. I knew that. But seeing all of him, bare and golden in the soft light of the cavern — the breadth of his shoulders, the thick muscles of his arms and chest, the fire rune blazing over his heart — it’s different. More.
His body is a weapon. Built for violence. Scarred from a lifetime of it.
Bob puffs up at the pool’s edge, posture going even more rigid than usual. Like he’s trying to match Torric’s energy. It’s both adorable and terrifying at the same time.
“Competition, Bob?” Finn murmurs beside me. “Bold move.”
I choke on nothing.
When Torric’s eyes meet mine, there’s something soft underneath all that ferocity. Something that’s just for me.
He steps into the water, and the level rises noticeably. He settles next to me, close enough to touch if I reached out.
“Breathe, sunshine,” he rumbles. “You’re turning purple.”
I exhale shakily. He smirks.
Four more Eds drift to the pool’s edge. The audience is growing.
I sink lower.
Aspen is quieter about it.
He undresses with his back half-turned, like he’s giving me the choice of whether to look. But I look. Of course I look.
He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost unfair — lean and pale, his white-blond hair still perfectly styled even after days on the road, the water rune on his arm pulsing soft blue. There’s a stillness to him even now, a calm that makes me want to curl into him and never move.
When he turns, I see the scars on his chest. Old ones. From their father. From the brands that made them what they are.
Patricia’s notebook flickers. Documenting. Always documenting.
“She’s taking notes,” Finn whispers. “On all of us. For posterity.”
“Shutup, Finn.”
But then Patricia turns —turns— like she wants me to see.
My eyes catch the edge of the page.
Tick marks.
Evenly spaced.
Perfectly straight.
