“I thought you weren’t in this for desire?”
A gods damned inferno simmers in my chest. I swear to the gods he can sense it, his own flame rising in response, reflective in those ever-changing eyes. “Fine, I was going to say ‘beautiful.’”
Yet my tattoo doesn’t burn or even itch. He … meant that.
“The only way in which you are normal is that you’re still mostly mortal.”
I hate how hard it’s become just to look at him. “The Oath’s transformation … it took something from me. Something I’m betting you druids don’t find so beautiful.” I blink back at him as he furrows his brows, gaze lax. Several Sedah-born druids do have texture to their hair, like Cleona, or Kenzo, but mine disappeared, stolen away. I still don’t understand why. My eyes roll and I pull forward a lock of straightened hair.
His jaw works before he finds his voice. “Your curls?”
“Yes.” My eyes water a bit, so I force them toward the ceiling. “The Oath straightened it. Did what the girls in every northern territory teased that I should do every day, heat a metal comb over a stove so that I might look more like them. But it’s part of who I am. My culture. My heritage. I liked how I looked before. It reminded me of my father’s people, from the Isle of Riches.But your father’s Oath forced me to become what druids find attractive, I assume.”
“The Oath’s design is ancient, and the wording in the spell had a lot to do with recasting changelings into Azazel’s image, to strip what humans felt tied them to their pasts.” He shakes his head, as though he can see where the spellwork sensed my ties, my connections, and went too far.
The pause between us stretches, his gaze dipping over my hair, flitting to my lips. He sits up, summoning the Moon again. “Let me return what was stolen. It’s the least I can do.”
My eyes widen, but I straighten up with him. “You can fix it? Permanently?”
“I can bring back the curls, but it won’t be permanent until the Descent. Then you can make it so. You can change anything, so long as the Gods Below listen.”
His hand rises to my hair, gently lifting a white strand, and he curls it around his finger. The Magician card creates a ripple in the air and a rush of sound like waves, and a scent like the ocean mixed with tropical fruits wafts over me for a wild, heady moment. I grip his wrist, clenching my eyes shut tight, spinning in the memories of my father’s home, one I’d only lived in as a child. The only place that everfeltlike home. For a moment, if I really pretend, I’m back on the Isle of Riches, surrounded by my family … still whole … before we were broken.
“There.” He tucks his cards away.
I can feel the curls, spiraling in texture. I pull one down into my line of sight, springing it, and it bounces and coils back into position. My eyes water. Maybe it’s stupid but …
“Thanks, Draven.” I can’t find any better words than that.
“You look the way you’re meant to.” Our gazes cling tightly, and I’m pulled into his orbit, like the earth dancing with the moon, careening through the night skies on a dare.
“Maybe I should darken it. I always hated being moon-cursed. I used to dye it—”
“I love the color.” Draven clears his throat. His gaze slinks to a midnight purple as it flits up and down my face. “Not that it matters … but … I love the snowy highlights … the tempestuous deep grays of the lows. You’re like a storm cloud.” His knuckle caresses a curl, his mouth parting, pupils expanding. “It matches your personality. But if you want to change it … it’s up to you.”
“No one’s ever complimented it before,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
My cheeks and chest are afire, and when I finally force myself to meet his eyes, they’re a lovely, full violet. We’re so close, sharing the same space, the same breaths. I want to map his cheeks with my thumb, explore those full lips with mine, and follow the slope of his throat with my tongue.
Finally, he breaks before I do. “We should sleep. It’ll be an early morning.”
“More pedicures?”
“I’ll be off to princely trainings, peasant.” Ah, there he is.
“Should I go with you?” I prefer his classes over mine.
“That’s a good idea. We need to see if this works, if our scents linger.”
He rolls onto his side, facing me, and I realize what he wants. Hesitantly, oh so carefully, I allow myself to lie in his open arms, my back against his front, using one of his arms as my pillow, and his other wraps around my waist. His skin against mine is so warm, an instant calm threatens to lull me. Yet there’s still distance between us, as if to get closer would be to risk us breaking our bet. Huffing, I slink my body until it’s flush against his.
He purrs, “And here I thought you weren’t trying to seduce me, yet you keep being so deliciously wicked.”
I glance over my shoulder. Even in the dark of night I can see the hunger in his gaze.
“World chosen or not, keep it in your pants if you want to see the sunrise, Princeling.”
My breaths remain tight as he chuckles, his chin resting above my head; those first breaths with my back pressed against his chest are uncomfortable, even though our bodies mold together, as if they’re made for each other. Yet I can’t relax; my nerves are at the edge of a cliff. I’m afraid one wrong move will put us both past a point of no return.
