Her words are rushed. “It must be past dawn. We should go.”
“Yes,” I say hoarsely.
I keep hold of her hand as we slip out of the chamber, keeping my body between Selene and the first of the early arrivals. The portly, older Caelumnai—an overseer of one of the Boreasan northern counties, if I remember correctly—stares at us with so much shock that amusement rises in my chest as we climb the stairs and he vanishes from sight. “I think we may be the talk of the court.”
“I’m already the talk of the court,” Selene says, almost absently. She lingers at the top of the second set of stairs, her head turning as she looks down the now-dark stone corridor. “Can you hear that?”
I join her, tilting my head to listen. “I don’t hear anything.”
When she shivers, I slip my arm around her shoulders, irritated at myself for not getting her a blanket. “Come on.”
I shield her from more curious faces on the way up, bundling her into her room and accidentally waking a sleeping Esme and Rio before I force myself to leave with the brush of my lips against her cheek, breathing her in and filling my lungs with my own damned scent from the soap she continues to wear.
Thoughts of her follow me as I stalk into my own room, stay with me as I upend the cold jug of water over my head and yank on the pull for more.
Those curves—
Ice-fucking-cold water. As much of it as possible.
Chapter thirty-seven
Selene
My hands tremble as Callan escorts me toward Petyr’s rooms for dinner.
Distracted, I barely notice as he turns a corner. Not until the musty scent of uncleaned floors fills my nose, darkness enclosing us as he yanks a door closed behind us. Some sort of cleaning cupboard, although it doesn’t smell very clean at all. His voice is low. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong.”
“I’ll tell him you can’t go.” Callan’s hand lands on the wall beside my shoulder. “You don’t have to go to his rooms. Butsomethingis wrong. There are no—”
The words snap off, as if hastily tossed out. Grateful to be pulled from my racing thoughts, I focus on him. It’s surprisingly easy. “No what?”
It’s not difficult for me to see his face. But Callan shouldn’t be able to see mine, yet his bronze eyes fix on me with unerring accuracy.
This close, I can feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt. Callan’s fingers brush against my bare arm, as if by accident in the small space, sending a shiver through my body. He leans forward until our noses almost brush.
“Your eyes,” he murmurs. “When you’re unhappy, or in pain, the stars in your eyes go out. Did you know that?”
A warm hand traces my cheek, cupping it. I’m suddenly fighting a war with my own body just to take a breath. It comes out shaky. “I… yes. I did know. I don’t give it much thought, truthfully.”
And my hands—mytraitoroushands have landed on his chest. Not pushing him away. No. Instead, my fingers curl into his warmth, silently seeking more.
More comfort. More of him. This is too much, and not enough at the same time.
“Well,” he says gruffly. Gods, there’s something in his voice that vexes my senses. The hairs on my arm stand on end at the low rasp. “I seem to be giving it an awful lot of thought. I don’t particularly like it.”
We’re so close that our breathing mingles. His scent—that faint spice a level deeper than the layer against my own skin—and heat surround me, and it feels as though I’m losing my footing. I force out a response between hitched breaths. “You don’t have to like it, thankfully. Just don’t think about it.”
The pads of his fingers pause a hairbreadth from my cheek. And gods, I nearly lean into them. “I don’t think it’s possible to not think about you.”
I cannot breathe.What is wrong with me?
My head nearly bangs into the wall as I pull back. “Is this another game?”
His eyes widen infinitesimally. His hand falls away, the lithe muscles in his torso flexing beneath my touch as it pulls back.
I almost follow, but his voice stops me. “Please. Tell me what’s wrong. Am I making you uncomfortable?”
