First, if only the Royal family of Summer could send messages through fire, that could be a way to identify the missing heir.
Second, I never said the squatter was ahe.
40
Aire
She was hiding something. Whatever it was, it must have occurred last night. Only in times of great strife did Aspen permit her feelings to show, the facade as tough as sediment.
Signs pierced through the cracks. As the sun rose during breakfast, purple welts darkened the sacs beneath her eyes, tarnishing her complexion like a bruise. She stared into her coffee mug, tuning out the rest of us, her mind churning like the spokes of a wheel as if she’d spent all night confronting an ultimatum.
The sight consumed me. My fingers clenched my own steaming cup.
Nicu cast her concerned looks, then swung his gaze to me, those bright irises searching for an explanation. I had none to give. For this had nothing to do with the enduring tension between us.
Even Lyrik noticed. The rogue’s eyebrows furrowed as he processed her ominous silence, though the man didn’t remark on it. To his unexpected credit, he knew when to bait and when to step back.
Aspen’s inner turmoil swept over me like a gale of wind, erratic and directionless. Inside, she was spiraling.
Although I shouldn’t be able to read her, somehow my psyche encountered a chink, a crevice that allowed intuition to slip through. How or why escaped me, but it couldn’t be random.
While the hours passed, we demolished a rotting exterior cabin wall down to the studs. As the daughter of a former Master Carpenter, Aspen insisted this had to be done, setting about this project with the determination of someone in need of a distraction. As we prepped the replacement panels, I stripped off my damp shirt, sweat dripping down my pectorals. The woman’s eyes veered toward my naked flesh, the brush of her gaze stoking my blood. Life returned her features at last, the pupils simmering.
But then she turned away, taking my hopes for her recovery with it. With abrasive motions, she operated a plough plane along the raw edge of a wood sheet.
Aspen had given Nicu explicit instructions that he filed in his mind, to help him assist with the construction. Only once did he grab the wrong item—a crowbar instead of a breathing mask—and froze. Aspen and I paused, marveling as he recognized the difference, gave the distinction ample thought, and calmly set the tool aside before retrieving the correct item.
A small advancement. A triumphant leap.
My heart grew three times its size. He acted as if it was nothing, but the scene brought a hopeful light to Aspen’s countenance that matched the weight lifting from my chest. Only a year ago, that moment wouldn’t have been possible for his mind to register. Nicu’s condition would never fully abate, but he was making exceptional headway. Otherwise, he trained himself to live fully regardless, turning what others would presume as disadvantages into strengths.
Of everyone in our clan, Nicu proved himself to have the strongest will.
From the corner of his eye, Lyrik witnessed the episode. Then his head tipped down, a grin crooking the ledge of his mouth.
Later, Nicu’s attention strayed when the rogue peeled off his own shirt like snakeskin. Plates of olive skin and whipcord muscles glistened with perspiration, every groove bathed in sunlight.
My liege paused, his long lashes flapping in confusion as he took in the spectacle behind Lyrik’s flexing back. Unaware, the man focused on sawing through another sheet of wood, his biceps inflating with each downward thrust.
Meanwhile, Nicu’s attention trickled down to the low waistline of the man’s dusty pants. Red suffused my liege’s ears before he spun in the opposite direction, his movements flustered.
I would slash through the rogue if he wounded Nicu’s spirits. Aside from that, it wasn’t my place to interfere. Therefore, I pretended not to notice, respecting my liege’s privacy.
That evening, I took a chance. After washing and dressing in a claret knit pullover and black leather pants, I slipped my fingers into a pair of obsidian gloves. On my way to the fire pit, I strode to the communal kitchen to procure an essential for supper.
Leaves carpeted the platform. Lyrik’s lanterns glowed, illuminating the way.
I turned a corner and bumped into a soft body. Aspen’s head snapped up to mine, her eyes bloating in surprise.
“Shit,” she gasped. “Sorry.”
“It’s my fault,” I insisted while veering aside. “After you—”
“No, after you.”
“Nonsense. You first.”
We faltered, then dissolved into an awkward chuckle.
