“I wasn’t aware you could compel people.” The edge in his voice is so sharp it cleaves my hand from his leg.
“I havenopower, Antoni.” I bury my fingers into the folds of my dress, peeved by his pettiness. “None. Not even the measly amount you and the others of our kind possess.”
I should’ve stayed on my bench. I start to rise when fingers curl around my hand. Antoni’s callused thumb dips into my palm, forcing my fingers to bend over his, even though I’m not sure I want to hold his hand.
“Forgive me?” The bite to his tone is gone.
“For what? Reminding me how useless I am?”
“For acting like a sprite-ass. And you’re not useless.”
I glare at the squelchy mud that’s stained the hem of my dress. If I had any power, I could make clothes spin inside the sudsy basin we use for washing. Instead, I have to scrub each piece of fabric until my nails ache.
“Maybe I can help you figure out how to move water.”
“I’m twenty-two, Antoni. I should’ve been able to move water a decade ago.”
“Maybe you’re a late bloomer.”
“Or perhaps, I won’t bloom at all.”
The pads of his fingers are rough, but so are mine, and although he doesn’t seem to care, I do. I tug my hand away, but he holds on. And then his thumb begins to move over the line that, according to Syb, measures how long I’ll live, which I hope is all myth and legend, since it breaks close to where it starts.
“You’ve bloomed in all the important ways, Fallon.”
I snort. I cannot help it.
“Not to mention you survived an encounter with a mareserpens. Perhaps you cannot move water, but you can apparently move the hearts of the creatures who thrive within it, serpents and water-Fae alike.”
I shake my head, but his words crackle my bad mood. “You have such a honeyed tongue.”
“I’m usually told thisaftermy tongue has ventured upon a woman’s body, not before.”
I side-eye him, my stomach swirling, from the ale, from his touch, from the idea of his tongue on my skin. He tugs on my hand, gently, as though to test for resistance. When he encounters none, the pressure grows until he’s pulled me onto his lap.
“I know I wear no uniform and I know you can do far better than a fisherman, but before you cast me and my heart aside, give me a chance, Fallon Rossi.” He raises our hands to his mouth and kisses my knuckles before sliding my hand to the nape of his neck. Once he feels secure I won’t shift it away, he wraps his fingers around the indent at my waist, sharpened by my corset.
Guilt, gratitude, and ale churn within me. Even though I don’t want to marry Antoni, I realize that I wouldn’t mind kissing him.
I must say it out loud because a nerve feathers his jaw. “I want to kiss you too, Fallon. As for marriage . . . put it out of your mind.”
I skip my fingers over the knobs of his spine, breathing in the sun-warmed brine flavor of his skin. “I’ve only ever kissed one other person, and you’ve kissed thousands.” I’m not sure why I confess this. I’d blame the ale, but it’s probably some deep-rooted insecurity.
“Your experience is of no importance to me. As for the thousands I’ve kissed before, none of them made me feel the way you do, Fallon.”
“Insecure?”
“Mad with desire,” he rasps, before pressing his lips to mine. Lips that have belonged to so many, but which, tonight, belong to only me.
The kiss is slow and languorous, nothing like the heated one I shared with Dante. There’s no urgency to it, no accompanying tears or heartache. Neither of us is going anywhere. Even though it feels wrong, I imagine I’m sitting on Dante’s lap, I’m kissing Dante’s mouth. I picture Dante’s hard length digging into my thigh.
I part my mouth, deepening the kiss. Antoni sweeps in gently, as though fearing that if he goes any faster, he’ll scare me. Or maybe he’s gentle because that’s his technique. I try to remember what Syb said, but the thought that my best friend has been where I am now makes my gut churn.
No thinking of Sybille.
Or Dante.
No thinking, period.
