Even though I know, logically, I should’ve saidhell noto going anywhere alone with a man I just met, my gut was screamingfuck yestoo loudly for me to ignore.
So, here I am, alone with Rook and unable to regret an inch of my decision. Not when he’s standing so close I’m practically drowning in him.
Even this close to him, I still can’t smell the telltale earthy scent of shifters, the peppery smell of mages, the burning ozone that’s supposed to signify fae, or anything else.
There’s something about him—all of them, really—that makes me feel settled in a way I never have. It’s… unnerving to say the least, and one more reason why I should keep my distance.
I see Rook smile out of the corner of my eye. It transforms the harsh lines of his face into something softer. “I thought you might like it. It feels like you’re at the edge of the world out here. It’s… peaceful. I know you had some reservations about being here with me, so I can leave you to enjoy it if you’d like.”
“Stay,” I blurt before wincing and tacking on, “Please.”
I see him watching me thoughtfully, but he thankfully doesn’t ask why I shrank into myself at accidentally demanding something.
“I’d love to.” Rook offers me his hand, and I debate not taking it. I liked the way Rook’s hand felt on my chest earlier a little too much. I probably shouldn’t fan the flames of whatever the hell is going on between us by touching him again.
But I rarely do what’s good for me, so I place my hand in his. My breath whooshes out of me at the feel of his large, calloused, and almost burningly warm palm on mine as he tugs me to the edge of the overlook.
He leads me over to the brink and releases my hand. Rook then plops down and lets his long, muscular legs dangle over the edge, not seeming worried about plummeting to his death. I carefully sit down next to him, not trusting myself not to pitch over the side of the cliff.
When I’m safely on my ass, I lean back on my hands. The rough stone scrapes my palms as I gaze up at the seemingly never-ending sky. All the stars are so clear and bright out here without all the light pollution.
We marvel at the nature around us in silence for a while before I start feeling awkward. Twisting my head to look at Rook, I trace my gaze over his sharp jaw, short blond hair, and full lips before asking, “So, why’d you start riding?”
He tears his gaze away from the forest surrounding us on all sides to focus on me. His deep gray eyes, that look like the sky in the peaceful moments before a storm, bounce around my face for a moment. “My friends wanted to ride, so I decided to learn with them.”
“Oh. Do you like riding, or do you just do it to hang out with them?”
“I’ve come to like it. I enjoy the sense of freedom when I ride. But I’m never going to have the encyclopedic knowledge of bikes that Hal does, the huge passion for stunting that Remy does, or the need to ride burning in my veins like Azrael does. Riding is something I do because it’s enjoyable, not because I need to, like the others. Why’d you start drawing?”
I huff a laugh at him turning it back to me. “I don’t know that I really chose to start. I’ve been doodling since I was old enough to hold crayons I stole from my sister. As I got older, my scribbles started to resemble actual things, and I experimented with different mediums. It’s just always been a part of me, I suppose. What is your passion, if riding isn’t it?”
“My passion is tech, I guess. There’s something about programming and tinkering with hardware that clicks with my brain in a way nothing else does. I love learning about technology, messing with it, and figuring out all the things I can make it do. I also enjoy developing tools that keep the people I care about safe. What’s yours?”
A lump forms in my throat at the question. I consider lying before softly admitting, “I don’t know.”
I like riding. I like drawing. I like graphic design. But I don’t have a burning passion for any of it.
I feel Rook’s hand cover mine where it’s stretched out behind me, silently offering comfort. “It’s okay not to know, dove.”
At least I understand Rook’s nickname for me. I have no idea whatalouettemeans or why Hal calls mewild girl. I also don’t know why they’re all calling me what sounds suspiciously like pet names. And I absolutely refuse to examine why it makes my heart thump harder in my chest when they do.
If it were anyone else calling me some version of a bird, I’d have the urge to throat punch them. Not that I would, because I’m, well, me. But Rook gets a pass because he also has an avian name.
Azrael calling melittle birddefinitely doesn’t count as an endearment. He made it sound more like a threat than anything else. I absolutely believe the man, who is one of the most terrifying people I’ve ever met, would murder me without a second thought.
“Is it?” I whisper, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “Everyone has a passion. It’s part of who you are as a person. And I don’t know what mine is, so who does that make me?”
Although I don’t expect him to have an answer, I would love for someone to be able to tell me who I am.
Because I have no clue.
I’ve always been Lark, younger sister of Wren, older sister of Jay, constant disappointment of a daughter of Don and Lisa, or the quiet Sparrow. I’ve never been just Lark or Lark, enthusiastic artist, free spirit, lover or doer of anything.
Rook waits to say anything until I meet his gaze. “It is okay. You’re young. You have time to figure it out. You don’t need to have all the answers now or have who you are down to a science. That’s part of what life’s about—learning who you are and who you want to be.”
My eyebrows raise at him saying I’m young. I would say I doubt he’s that much older than me, but you never know with supernaturals. For all I know, he could be a five-hundred-year-old fae.
I bite my lip and look away, overwhelmed by his intense gaze. “How do I figure it out?”
