The pain ofnotanswering the resonance.
Of not making Eliza mine.
I follow her from the treeline, not stopping until she’s safely back inside the house. But my thoughts are dark and dangerous.
Tempest prances restlessly, embodying the temptation gnawing at me. I’m on the knife’s point of transgression. Ready to burn down the world for one taste, one more moment with the woman who makes my blood sing.
Instead, I pull up the collar of my duster against the wind. I can’t stay. I should’ve never come back.
But the pull is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. It grinds me down to my core, demanding a sacrifice I refuse to make…
Because it’s not mine to make.
“Come on, Tempest,” I urge in the only language that truly calms the hot-blooded mare. The one older than memory itself. Taken from the glyphs carved in stone, etched into fields, and buried beneath my skin.
This language has to die with me, like it should have the Ancients.
Most Wildbloods say they’re long gone. I know better.
Ash and his woman awakened them. And I’ll be the one to pay the price for it.
I have no control over that.
But what I can control?
Eliza’s fate.
I won’t let her pay because of me.
I turn, winding back toward town. I’ll have that dampener. I’ll have it tonight, along with the others.
In working order.
Because if I don’t, I won’t survive this.
Maybe I don’t want to.
No matter what Mags and the rest of the council say.
But first, I have to say goodbye.
Proper.
The only way I can.
The only language she understands.
I dig my knees into Tempest’s sides, and she takes off like a bullet. I tug my hat low to keep it from flying away.
An hour later, a burning bouquet sits atop Eliza’s kitchen table in a large mason jar. All Castilleja. All declaring the thing I never can.
Their fragrance fills the room, sweet like fruit, salty like ocean air… the few times I remember visiting.
I place the cell phone she insisted I use next to it with a plastic thud. Had it in the saddlebag the whole time. Had to lie so she wouldn’t call… wouldn’t get the government men on me two inches from death.
Can’t imagine a greater prize, an object of more wonder to them, except perhaps, for my ancestors shrouded in fog and storm atop the mountains.
At the entrance, I pause, gripping the door jamb for one hesitant moment. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. Taking her stairs two at a time, I let myself into her bedroom.
