Connie’s warrior.
He is sprawled out on his back, boots too close to the flames, and his arms crossed over his face.
He might be relaxed, but he isn’t asleep.
I know because, every little while, he lifts his arms just a bit, turns his head, and looks back at the captives.
He’s checking on Connie.
She’s curled up by the smaller campfire at the end of the mossy meadow.
She sleeps alone. Or as alone as someone can in a huddle of people around the heat of flames and trapped by a circle of sitting guards.
And even in the small space they have, the others avoid her.
I feel a twinge of pity in my chest.
Samick’s chin brushes over the crown of my head, disturbing my hair that’s weaved and tangled into a straggly braid.
I don’t look up at him.
I watch Connie sleep. And my murmur is gravelly, “Why is she alone?”
Samick traces my stare.
But he doesn’t answer, because the warrior looks between us then over at his mate, his evate, and he huffs. “She ran,” he says, and his voice is coarse, porous stone.
I throw my blank gaze to him.
The first time I noticed him, the campfires blazed so fresh and bright that the golden hues were banished from his hair. That’s not the case now in these settled, smaller flames.
Hair like spun gold matches his warm complexion, a sort of coppery undertone—but his eyes…
My spine chills at the sight of them.
Pockets of the blackout.
Pure darkness.
Like someone plucked out his eyes then shoved in a pair of glossy black pebbles.
I’ve been around the fae long enough now, but this one reignites that instinct in me—that recoil back into repulsion.
Samick doesn’t tense beside me.
Doesn’t sit up straighter or even stop adding his finishing touches to the sketch he’s finally completing.
He turns his attention back to the pages.
That alone is enough for me.
Unspoken permission that I can talk to Connie’s warrior.
And the only question on my mind is, “When?”
He lifts his dark gaze to me, a moodiness settling over his face like a brewing storm. “When the earth split.”
The earthquake.
