Theron’s deep, rumbling voice pulls me from my thoughts, andIlook up quickly.
“I’m fine,”Iassure him, giving him a shy glance.“Just…thinking.”
I wish he wasn’t sitting so far away.Justa little while ago, we were tangled together, skin-to-skin, breathless and desperate—and now he’s on the opposite side of the fire, like there’s an invisible line between us he doesn’t dare to cross.
He’s only wearing his trousers—his boots and shirt are still drying—but even like this, half-dressed, he seems…guarded…contained.Maybehe feels like we almost went too far, too.Inthe firelight, his curving tattoos seem to writhe and swirl, the shifting shadows making them look almost alive.
“I was thinking,” he says, then stops.
He doesn’t look at me.He’sstaring into the fire instead, his jaw tight, like whatever he’s about to say is something he’s not sure he should speak aloud.ButIwant to hear his thoughts.Ifind thatIwant to know everything about him.
AmIfalling in love?
The thought comes unbidden, andIpush it away at once.There’sno use loving a maleI’monly going to forget onceIwork theTimeWeavingspell.
“Thinking about what?”Iask softly, urging him on.
He sighs and runs a hand over his horns.
“I was thinking about what you said at the river,” he says at last.“Abouthow you feel like you don’t belong.”
“Oh…”Mycheeks start to get hot with embarrassment.“Ijust—Ihad to tell a truth that broke my heart.AndIguess that’s always bothered me.”
“Of course it does,” he says quietly.Then, after a moment, more roughly, “Ifeel the same way myself.”
That surprises me.
“You do?Howso?”
“Well…”Heexhales slowly, running a hand over his horns again—a meditative gesture.“Idon’t have any parents either.Mymentor,Kline, found me wandering the streets whenIwas just five or six.Triedto find whereIcame from, butIcouldn’t remember anything.”Heshrugs, but there’s tension in the gesture.“Sohe took me in and raised me.ButIalways wondered what happened to my real parents—where did they go?Whydid they leave me?Youknow…that kind of thing.”
“Oh,Theron…”Myheart aches for him.“Ididn’t know.I’mso sorryInever asked.”
“Well, we’ve been a little busy trying not to die lately,” he says dryly.“Notmuch time for personal confessions.”
I can’t help smiling.
“That’s true,”Iadmit.“It’sgood of you to tell me,”Iadd softly.“I’vefelt so alone my whole life.Beingan orphan—or…not even knowing ifIam one.JustknowingIdon’t have anyone who wants to claim me.”
He nods.
“I used to wonder whatIdid wrong,” he says, his voice lower now.“Whatmade them leave me.”
“You didn’t doanythingwrong,”Isay at once.“Yousaid yourself you were only five or six!”
He shrugs, like he doesn’t quite believe that.
“Maybe.Stillfeels like it’s my fault they left me.”
“I understand,”Iwhisper, my heart squeezing like a fist in my chest.“I’vefelt that same way—like it’s my fault nobody wants me.”
The distance between us suddenly feels unbearable.
BeforeIcan second-guess myself,Ishift closer—just a little at first, then more, moving around the fire untilI’msitting right beside him.
“I’ve felt alone…for so long,”Iadmit.
“Me too,” he says, and his hand finds mine.
