Water!
Here I go…
Carina and the shifter, sitting in a cavern.
Almost K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
But then, he’s an idiot and broke them up…
Okay, singing isn’t my strong suit. Neither is rhyming.
Was it the caves or are you getting toasty? Maybe it’s the heat between these two. Wonder when these idiots will pull their heads out of their asses. I mean,Iknow when, but I can’t say.
In so many ways, our first couple had more action between them. Although, I think that was called “hatred.” Harlow was attempting to escape at almost every turn; Alec was figuring out what to do with her.
I’m not the only one seeing these vibes, right? It’s getting harder and harder to figure out who’s vibing and who isn’t in my old age.
Vibes. Such a modern term. You havenoidea how many changes the English language has gone through over the millennium. We’ve gone from grunting to proper and formal English, to the crap of today. What happened to using titles when greeting others? I was once Miss Freya. Now, I’m “bro,” “dude,” or whatever uncreative name mortals come up with.
Perhaps it’s why Alec holds a special place in my heart—despite itobviouslynot being reciprocated—because he’s formal. Whose heart wasn’t aflutter when he called Harlow ‘Miss Sinclair’? Granted, it was supposed to be demeaning and sarcastic, but given who he is, pretty sure that’s his fucked-up love language.
Anyway, whoa, got off target there.
Language. Yeah, I’ve had to adapt. Boredom drives you to keep current.
So,dudes, let’s get back to it this train wreck of two people realizing they don’t dislike one another and want to make use of those nests.
Maybe they will eventually.
Or maybe one will die and this won’t be a happy ending for them.
Or maybe my skin will turn blue.
I don’t know, I’m making this up as I go along. Twiddling my fingers, waiting for the good stuff.
It’s coming soon. Just you wait…
Twenty-Six
CARINA
Certain things can involvethe use of magick but are better without.
Like apple picking.
A small orchid right here within the mountains is something I never would have expected. Spanning about twenty trees worth, two rows of five, and growing McIntosh apples, they provide easy snacks throughout the winter. They grow all summer, are picked in the fall, and are stored for use during the winter.
Standing on a wooden crate, I stretch my arm for an apple out of reach. My fingers brush it, my legs wobbling when I lift onto my toes. After three tries and one huff, magick detaches it from the stem and plops it into my hand.
“What,” a deep rumble cuts through the blissful silence of the small field, “are you doing?”
Apple in hand, I go to turn, only for my shoe to hook on the crate’s edge and stagger me sideways. Arms flinging to the side for balance proves pretty useless when I stumble, the ground rushing towards me.
Only, it never comes.
A burning warmth coats my neck—although that may also be my blush—as Ryder’s arms come around me and he drags me back to my feet. He doesn’t release me when I’m standing, and I get an eyeful of the chest I still fondly recall sleeping against.
“You have to stay alive long enough for Twilight Grove to make you useful.” It’s a teasing tone, followed by a deep chuckle vibrating against my hand.
