The rogue crossed his arms. “What do you think?”
“We think you have the temperament of Summer, the skill of Winter, and a name of Spring,” I listed.
“It’s Lyrik with a k,” he corrected. “Only sounds like I’m named after music. But since when do names have to correspond with our birth Season?”
I hoisted my shoulder. “With everything else about you, it’s just a funny coincidence.”
“That’s me. A funny coincidence.”
This was putting it mildly. The longer I studied him, the more familiar this mercurial rogue seemed, though I’d never forget a face like this one.
Also, The Lost Treehouses didn’t let just anyone bunk in its borders. According to lore, if this place didn’t want a person to stay, it made sure to let the intruder know, and not always the benevolent way. So presumably, the enclave approved of Lyrik. Despite his noxious occupation, he’d passed some kind of test here.
The rest of us still needed to earn that right.
Returning inside the chamber, Aire filled the doorway to capacity. “You have Autumn roots, yet that doesn’t round out your lineage.”
Lyrik squinted at the knight. His hands thrust into the pockets of his coat. “Where are my manners? I’m the host. We shouldn’t be talking about me.” He leered my way, locks of unkempt dark hair scraping across his jaw. “What’s your story, wood nymph?”
“Bitch. Wood nymph,” I recited with bland expression. “If you think calling me names that aren’t mine is going to have an effect, you’re targeting the wrong axe wielder. My list of past-life monikers is as long as my list of kills. Try and label me. See how much of a fuck I give.”
“Long list of kills, eh? I didn’t know assassins came in your buxom size, much less wore so many interesting tattoos.” Lyrik flapped his hand up and down my form. “No offense about your size, by the way. Hips and tits are a good look on you.”
Just then, the squatter caught sight of Aire’s scowl. “Sorry, knight. I’m not ogling your wife, if that’s what the death-glare is about.”
“We’re not married,” Aire and I protested in unison.
Lyrik clipped his gaze between us. “Sure. All right. My mistake.”
“Despite the hood, lots of people ogle my curves,” I said. “Just don’t expect reciprocation. I have higher standards than squatters.”
“No worries. I have higher standards than females.”
Ah. So his tastes leaned elsewhere. With his olive complexion and scruffy black hair, I pitied the village women who fawned over this morally grey stranger. I spoke their flirty language and wagered the poor things invested in his wares more to catch his eye than his business.
Lyrik hadn’t glanced once at Nicu, who’d been inspecting the room. However, when the squatter turned, he knew where to find my friend, strutting toward him without a hitch.
While Nicu studied a jar containing a fizzy substance, Lyrik slouched against the neighboring table, glasses clinking as he picked the vessel from its shelf and unplugged the cap. “One of my favorites. Purely for atmosphere, but when the liquid meets the air, smoke rises, changes color—,” he met Nicu’s gaze “—and lights up the room.”
Vapors danced from the rim and turned pink. Engrossed, Nicu swiped his finger through the tendrils, making them quiver.
“It’s blushing,” he exclaimed.
“Nifty, huh?” the rogue murmured.
Nicu watched the haze, while Lyrik watched him. My eyes flickered between them until the force of a typhoon pushed against my back.
I glanced sideways just as Aire’s gaze swerved from mine. While he reconsidered the scenery beyond this room, the knight’s fingers clenched the strap of one scabbard in a tight grip.
Meanwhile, the chamber flushed a deep, heated color.
25
Aire
She watched me. As I stood guard, those hazel eyes swallowed the short distance between us, the impact tempestuous.
Comparatively, I did not require vision to see her, to know where she stood, or to fathom how she moved. For I saw this woman in my mind’s eye every waking second.
