Without a word, Rhodes crossed the room in two long strides, crouched by his satchel, and rummaged through it. When he turned back, he cradled something carefully in his hands.
My knees nearly buckled at the sight of something so small and seemingly insignificant—yet immensely important to me. I leaned against the wall for support as Rhodes stepped closer, holding my favorite mug from Mageia’s brew station.
The pastel swirls still gleamed even in the dim light, and the faint dark cracks remained visible—scars where Rhodes had carefully glued it back together. Memories of Mageia rushed over me like a wave, and I trailed my fingers along its fractures.
“Nash helped me search for it while you and Fallon were in the Eternal Tomb,” he said softly. “I’ve been waiting for the righttime to give it to you, but I haven’t really had you to myself since—”
“Shut up,” I said, grinning despite myself.
He grinned back, both dimples out. “I’ll take that as a compliment, my thorn.”
“Is that why Cleo mentioned she was growing coffee plants?” I asked, moving to the drawers.
“Caught me.”
I set the mug down gently and reached for the unlocked tome. “We still have time before we fly. How about I read the journal out loud while you piece together clues?”
Rhodes unzipped his winter jacket and let it fall, followed by his leather vest, a simple black tunic beneath. With easy, familiar motion, he pulled back the sheets and settled in.
“You may have to put those back on,” I said, eyeing him. “Otherwise I won’t be able to concentrate.”
He draped an arm along the headboard. “Don’t worry, my thorn. I won’t make a move—we don’t have enough time for me to worship you the way I want to. You know, I enjoy that little sound you make when you’re about to—”
I pounced, clamping a hand over his mouth before he could finish, and we both broke into uncontrollable laughter.
Curling into him, I nestled at his side as his arm wrapped around me. I propped the leather tome on my knees, flipped to the first page, and began to read.
Chapter 37
“Let’s get this show in the air—my wings are aching to soar.”
Lakota had been rushing me since the sun dipped behind the horizon. The four of us gathered in the Golden Crest with travel packs slung over our shoulders and weapons aplenty. Ever since we’d pulled them out of Mageia, Tatum and Davis had trained daily. The Hollow had granted them their own gear. Davis favored swordplay, while Tatum preferred an arsenal of hidden daggers—turning her combat into something intimate and lethal.
A gust of wind tossed Davis’s sandy blond hair, a blush creeping up his cheeks just before he winked at Tatum.
She twisted, grabbed, and yanked his ear in response.
Lakota landed to my right with a quake that rattled the earth. My pulse spiked at the sight of him. His crimson scales gleamed beneath the moonlight, each spike along his back and limbs catching the glow like molten armor. He looked every bit the terrifying force he was born to be. Moments later, Noemi touched down ten feet away, followed by Echo and Spear.
His massive head swiveled toward me. Steam hissed from his nostrils, stinging my nose with sulfur. “This place has grounded you for far too long,” he growled. “Tonight, we fly.”
I didn’t answer. I slammed my mental gates shut before he could sense the truth stirring inside me. I hadn’t flown since before the Hollow—since before Shayde drugged Laney and me and delivered us to that mountain peak where the Grim shattered the last fragile pieces of who I thought I was.
I hadn’t told him, or anyone, that I felt unworthy of the Mareki’s gifts. Unworthy of the sky I once loved. Unworthy of the fire in my veins—the very element that bound me to Lakota. What had once felt like power now pressed on me like a burden I hadn’t earned. The thought of soaring again felt less like a right and more like a lie.
What had once filled me with adrenaline now burned me with shame.
A strong, warm arm wrapped around my waist and spun me. I landed in Rhodes’s arms, his gaze searching my face like he could feel the hesitation I hadn’t spoken aloud.
“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, low enough only I could hear.
I exhaled, fingers gripping the edges of his winter cloak. “How are you not connected to my mind and always know what I’m feeling?”
“Because I know you like the back of my hand, my thorn. Now tell me—what is it?” His tone left no room for deflection.
My eyes flicked to Lakota. He watched us with piercing intensity, golden eyes unmoving.
“I’m… anxious to fly,” I admitted in a whisper.
