“You just said Alix and I would know if the men were really in trouble because our soul-bonds are there, but how would you know?”
I falter, and a gust of icy wind hits us all in the face as my spell ripples. Oh Gods. “I wouldn’t!” I blurt out. “Not…not like that…I just meant I’m really good at reading people.”
Oh Gods, oh Gods. No no no!
Alix and Dessa look at each other, sharing identical suspicious grins. They look like cats sharing a particularly juicy mouse.
“Okay, that’s some bullshit,” Alix blurts out. “What did you really mean?”
I swallow thickly, unable to come up with an answer, because I don’t actually know what I meant. I don’t know why I would say that…Fox and I aren’t soul-bonded. We’re not even really together.
Except, obviously some part of me thinks we are…or wants to be.
The rescue mission is successful, but complicated.
We find all four men and the two missing children trapped in the home of the Yule Witch. The “Witch” turns out not to be a witch at all, but some kind of monstrous shapeshifter. When the inevitable brawl breaks out, I don’t hesitate to throw myself into the middle of it.
When it was over, Odessa and Kastian set off toward the manor while Daemon and Alix guided the weary children down the opposite path to reunite them with their worried grandfather. So it falls to me, Fox, and Jett to wrangle the sleigh and horses back home through the snowy forest.
I’m relegated to the back of the sleigh while Fox claims the reins and Jett takes the seat beside him. I flex my fingers,and warmth blooms around us like an invisible cloak, melting snowflakes before they can touch our skin.
“Thanks, Aurelia. After Dyaspora, I was hoping to never see snow again.” Jett says with a contented sigh, settling back into the now warm sleigh. “And thanks for coming to help,” he adds, seemingly as an afterthought. “Good thing you’ve been doing all that fight training or we’d all be dead.”
“Not a problem,” I reply happily.
My gaze shifts to Fox, expecting him to say…something. I did just save all their lives, but only because he’s spent over a year teaching me how.
Fox is dubiously silent.
His shoulders rise toward his ears as he hunches forward, his spine a rigid line beneath his coat. The leather of the reins creaks as his grip tightens, knuckles white. The horses sense his tension and toss their heads nervously, their breath clouding in the frigid air.
Jett glances at him, then looks back at me, raising his eyebrows in silent question. I shrug. Whatever’s crawled under Fox’s skin and died there is beyond me.
Jett elbows Fox in the ribs, his grin widening. “Come on, you have to admit she was magnificent. She would have had that monster handled all on her own if you hadn’t jumped in the middle.”
Fox’s jaw clenches. His eyes remain fixed on the path ahead as he mutters, “You shouldn’t have gotten involved.”
“So you would rather I let Odessa or Alix do it?” I ask lightly, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not sure that would have been all that successful, given that Alix is human and Dessa hasn’t held a sword once in her entire life.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“So then you’re saying you’d rather we just left you there to die?”
“No,” he growls, clearly growing more agitated by the second.
“So then who else was supposed to help?” I ask doggedly.
Fox says nothing and the silence only grows more tense. Jett shifts uncomfortably in the front seat, suddenly very interested in adjusting his gloves.
“Who else?” I repeat, pointedly.
I know I should drop it, but I can’t. I just want him to admit I did a good job—but of course, he doesn’t.
Again, Fox doesn’t answer. He shakes his head and glances back at me for the briefest moment. His eyes meet mine in the darkness, and there’s a flash of something raw beneath the anger, before he turns away again.
The anger drains from me and I feel my face soften. Behind his frustration lies concern. He was afraid for me, and the thought sends a flutter through my chest.
My revelation from earlier crashes over me again: Somewhere along the way I’ve developed real feelings for him. And now, watching his white-knuckled grip on those reins, I wonder if perhaps I’m not alone.
