“You smell like… something.”
I couldn’t place the scent. It was fresh, and clean. Yet subtly enticing.
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“No.”
If I wanted to compliment her, I’d mention Lyra’s simple, but elegant, white gown. Its flowing sleeves moving like the air every time she lifted her arm to take a sip. Unlike Thalassari, whose clothing was often spun from fabric so sheer, it left little to the imagination, the Aetherians favored a similar fluid drape in thicker, more substantial weaves… warm enough to cut the mountain chill, yet light enough to move as if carried by the wind.
I never cared for their style. Until now. Every curve of Lyra’s was highlighted as she moved. The cut showed just enough of the curve of her breasts to leave a man wanting more, but not so much he was given an ample view.
Everything about her was elegant.
And deceptive.
“Talk to me, Terran. Tell me why you are so angry.”
I was jolted from my perusal by her words. Different than the ones my mother often spoke to my father, but similar too.
I’d always resented that he needed to be coaxed into smiling, or relaxing, by her. Always wondered why he didn’t have the skills to do so on his own.
You are becoming our father.
How many times had Kael accused me of as much?
As many as I’d denied it.
“Because my brother is right.”
That was one thing I could do that my father hadn’t. Tell the truth.
“About?”
I downed the wine and headed back for more. Filling my goblet, I rejoined Lyra as she patiently waited for me to finish.
“All of it,” I said, unable to put the truth into words.
We stood in silence for some time as I replayed the argument, the time since Mev had come through the Gate, again and again in my mind. I wanted to forget it all, but couldn’t. A battle was coming, and I had to choose a side.
Surprised that Lyra asked no more questions, I finally turned to her.
“Why did you come here tonight?”
She simply looked at me.
I took her goblet and placed it, along with my own, on the table, asking her again, “Why did you come?”
Lyra forgot the game.
Her chin raised defiantly.
“In here,” I said, waving toward my bedchamber, “I am in charge. Answer the question, Lyra.”
A switch had been flicked.
Ahh, she hadn’t forgotten the game. Lyra was playing it. Hard.
I could play harder.
