Do I steal a glance at Reeve? Yes. Does he steal a glance back? No. It’s not called stealing when the person’s stare lingers.
Once I reach the bathroom, I seize the edge of the countertop and haul in a deep breath, then round my mouth and let it out slowly.
Malachi’s wrong.
He has to be wrong.
By this time tomorrow, we’ll know for sure.
What if he’s right, though? What if Quinn and Reeve are playing us? What if that’s the reason their people didn’t come to the Vineyard? What if that’s why Quinn broke free?
I hate that Malachi’s theory actually has legs. And feet at this point, considering how it races around my mind.
So much for Calanthe’s interpretation of her dream. It might’ve been premonitory, but couldn’t Gaea have given her more details?
I shut my eyes but see Reeve’s tipped, bloodless face. I yank my lids up and splash my face. Before leaving my safe haven, I retie my ponytail, but the front strands of my hair refuse to stay confined and fall right back out.
As I unbolt the door, I stream air through the side of my mouth to carry a strand out of my eyes but freeze because someone’s waiting right outside the door.
I glare at the emerald ring peeking from Reeve’s open shirt collar.
“Why are you avoiding me?” His husky timbre slides through me, setting something dangerous in motion. It’s like he’s learned the exact frequency that gets under my skin.
“I’m not,” I lie.
“You can’t even look at me.”
Of course, the next thing I do is meet his eyes to prove that I can, in fact, look at him.
But then he has to go and say, “Thank you for trusting us enough to bring us to your island. I know the decision mustn’t have been easy to make.”
I swallow, keeping my eyes fastened to his. He drops his chin, which brings his face critically nearer to mine.
I should back up—or leap forward. I should shove him with magic, but I don’t.
My lips part. Would it be so terrible to tug him back inside the bathroom and use him like he used me?
My thighs clench as I relive our night in the hotel and every night that led up to it.
I don’t know how it’s possible—since Reeve showered with soap that isn’t his and wears clothes that don’t belong to him—but I smellhim. That familiar blend of clean and smoky, like he’s spent hours in a kitchen cooking something mouthwatering.
When he seizes my hip that pokes out of my low-slung sweatpants, the localized heat from his fingers spreads until I think my bones might actually be melting.
“Elle, grab me a water on the way?” Calanthe’s voice snaps me out of the spell Reeve has managed to cast on me using no magic whatsoever.
“You and I have unfinished business,” he murmurs.
I can’t even locate my voice to answer him. Not that I’d know what to answer him.
As he shuffles sideways to let me pass…as my fingers wrap around a cold bottle, I think,Please don’t betray my people again. Please don’t betray me.
When the jet touches down, my stomach rebels, and I drop my head between my knees and only pick it up when Malachi crouches next to me and rubs soothing circles between my shoulder blades.
I dart a glance at his exhausted face, before my eyes sweep across another face—Reeve’s. It’s contorted in rage. I drop my stare to his fingers that are jammed into tight fists, as though he’s barely managing to refrain from hauling Malachi away from me.
“Let’s go,” Diego says, escorting Reeve off the plane.
Our eyes collide once more before he turns and takes in the brightness beyond. I try to read his expression as he beholds my homeland, but Mom barges into the plane, barreling right past him, arms already extended to scoop me up.
