“Let me go!”
“It’s an order, Wildarrow,” Daegel barks.
His tone hits like ice.
Right then, two fae come at us. Daegel fights off one of the attackers without letting me go. I handle the other.
I turn to Roman.
He shoves his blade into the chest of one of his attackers. The man falls on his knees in front of Roman.
But Roman’s too slow.
The second pirate drives a curved blade into Roman’s gut.
Deep. Horizontal. Cruel.
No.
No.
NO!
Roman’s eyes find mine through the chaos.
My heart drops.
He winks.
And then he’s gone.
A boot to his stomach sends him tumbling backwards, over the rail—into the dark waters.
I don’t recognize my own voice as the word tears out of me, ripping my vocal cords. “ROMAN!”
CHAPTER FOUR
VERA
I would have rather cut out my own tongue than admit to Kitajo my true feelings for him. He knows that about me. Yet, he still pushes my buttons, as if seeing me squirm under his gaze gives him some sort of twisted satisfaction.
He lies on his side with his head propped on his hand, facing me in his giant bed. “Come on,Vera. Aren’t you tired of all the pretending and wearing masks? There’s no need for any of it. Not right here. Not with me.” He sighs. “Anyway, I know.”
I arch an eyebrow. “What did I tell you about reading my emotions, Kitajo? You’reneverallowed to use your Decarios powers on me.”
A cheeky smirk dancing on the corner of his mouth, he says, “Vera, my love. I have no need to use my power to read you. I see the look in your eyes when they’re on me. Besides, even if I wanted to get a read on your emotions, and I would dare to disregard your wishes against me using it, you know it doesn’t work. Not on you. It must be a sign from the spirits of the gods.”
“It’s rather arrogant of you to assume you understand what’s in my eyes when I look at you,” I say with a laugh. “And it’sbeyond you, General, to read into accidents and coincidences as signs of fate or the spirits of the gods.”
But my heart skips a beat at the overly romantic thought of what if what we haveiswritten in the stars.
Kitajo sighs dramatically, like a desperate man. He rolls onto his back, crosses his arms behind his head, and flexes his chest muscles.
“You’re such a dramatic show-off,” I say. “If you didn’t carry that broadsword of yours and wear Ezkai leathers all the time, I would think you’re nothing more than a huge toddler.”
He closes his eyes and makes a face, as if he’s in physical pain, while he places a hand on his chest, right where his heart is. “You’re a cruel, cruel fae.” One eye opens after a heartbeat. “I love it when you’re mean to me.”
“You may want to speak to someone about that, honey.”
