Aero wondered what.
Then he caught himself wondering and cursed under his breath, gathering the scattered printouts with hands that weren’t entirely steady.
He didn’t do this. Didn’t feel things. Didn’t wonder about other people’s emotional states. Didn’t lie awake imagining storm-colored eyes and sharp smiles and the way static crackled between them whenever they got too close.
He’d survived by staying detached. By keeping every potential loss at arm’s length. By never, ever letting anyone close enough to matter.
He’d survived.
But as the storm built outside his window, his dragon restless and hungry beneath his skin, Aero wondered for the first time if surviving was the same thing as living.
He didn’t have an answer.
He wasn’t sure he wanted one.
SEVEN
CASSIA
Three days.
Three days of working beside Aero Tau in the cramped confines of the weather station. Three days of his clinical observations and precise measurements and the way he looked at her data—herdata—with those unnerving eyes narrowed in assessment. Three days of her magic pulling toward him every time he got within arm’s reach, of charge building between them at unexpected moments, of storms gathering overhead whenever her frustration peaked.
Which was often. Very, very often.
Cassia stood at the window of Avine’s suite in the Siren’s Rest, watching the sun sink toward the harbor in shades of amber and rose. The inn occupied a converted Victorian at the edge of downtown, all gingerbread trim and widow’s walks, and Avine’s private quarters on the third floor offered the best view in Haven Shores. On a normal evening, Cassia would have appreciated it.
Tonight, she was too busy contemplating murder.
“You’re making that face again,” Junie announced from somewhere behind her. “TheI’m going to set something on fireface. Should I be worried about the curtains?”
“I haven’t set anything on fire in months.”
“The lighthouse doesn’t count?”
“That was lightning, not fire. Completely different element.” Cassia turned from the window and accepted the glass of wine Avine was holding out. The suite’s sitting room was warm and softly lit, furnished in the comfortable blues and creams that Avine had chosen after taking over the inn. Pillows everywhere. Blankets draped over chairs. A space designed for exactly this kind of gathering—witches in crisis seeking refuge.
Tonight’s crisis was Cassia’s. As usual.
Dahlia had claimed the loveseat, her legs tucked beneath her, a half-finished croissant in her hand. Junie sprawled across the floor cushions with the boneless grace of someone who’d never met a chair she couldn’t ignore. Narla sat in the wingback by the cold fireplace, her dark eyes watchful, Ember—her small owl familiar—perched on the armrest beside her.
And Gust?—
Gust was sulking on the mantelpiece, radiating disapproval at the proceedings. He’d wanted to stay at the cottage. Cassia had insisted on bringing him. Now he was punishing her for the indignity by ignoring everyone and occasionally sending pointed pulses of displeasure through their bond.
“So.” Avine settled onto the couch, tucking her feet beneath her. Her blonde hair was loose tonight, falling past her shoulders, and she had the particular expression she wore when preparing to extract uncomfortable truths. “Tell us about the dragon.”
“What’s to tell? He’s cold. Arrogant. Treats me like I’m a particularly interesting weather phenomenon he’s cataloging for his research.”
“That sounds frustrating,” Dahlia offered.
“Frustrating doesn’t begin to cover it.” Cassia started pacing because sitting still was beyond her capacity right now. The winesloshed in her glass. “He questions everything. My methods. My readings. My interpretation of the data I’ve been collecting for years. Yesterday, he spent twenty minutes explaining atmospheric pressure gradients to me. Tome.”
“The audacity,” Junie deadpanned.
“I know you’re mocking me.”
“I would never.” Junie’s grin suggested otherwise. “Continue. Tell us more about how terrible he is.”
