SAPPHIRE
Montauk is eerilyquiet when we arrive.
The ocean stretches out beside us, restless and dark, waves slamming against the shore in slow, steady crashes. Almost like Poseidon himself is warning us about what’s to come.
The house that the cloaked girl’s map led us to sits near the pier, abandoned-looking and skeletal. Paint peels in strips from its wooden siding, and the windows are dark and vacant, like empty eyes watching us approach.
Riven pulls up next to it, stops, and kills the engine.
Neither of us moves.
The space between us is charged with so much energy that every muscle in my body feels too tight, like a string about to snap.
“This is it,” he finally says, eying the house like it personally offended him.
“Perfect,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest as I size up our new nightmare. “I much prefer haunted cabins to igloos and ice caves.”
He drums his fingers against the steering wheel before turning to look at me. And when his silver eyes meet mine,something flickers in them—something dark and unreadable. And for a moment, I swear it almost softens.
Then it’s gone, like a shadow swallowed by the night.
“And here I thought we had such educational times in the cave and igloos,” he says, and I rip off my seatbelt, hurrying out of the car.
I need distance. Space. Air that doesn’t smell like him—like winter, pine, and everything I’m trying to forget.
Behind me, he follows, moving with that infuriatingly smooth grace of his and popping the trunk open. “Let’s see what Cloaked Girl left us,” he says, and I step beside him, careful not to standtooclose.
It’s quickly evident that Cloaked Girl didn’t pack for an average road trip.
“That’s a lot of preparation for a mysterious girl who appeared out of nowhere,” I say, frowning as I reach in, brushing my fingers over an ancient-looking clay cup nestled among the supplies.
He picks up one of the daggers and tests its weight. “You prefer being unprepared?” he asks as he offers it to me handle first, as controlled as always. “Here. Since you enjoy stabbing me so much, you might as well have a backup.”
The memory slams into me, swift and merciless.
The slice of my blade cutting through his skin. The scent of his blood hitting the air—cold, metallic, and painfully tempting.
Even now, the phantom scent lingers, making my body react in ways I refuse to acknowledge.
And from the way he tilts his head, watching me with that quiet, unreadable intensity that makes me feel like he’s peeling back my defenses, he’s definitely noticing the insufferable way his comment affected me.
I glare at him and snatch the dagger, careful not to touch his skin.
“That issonot happening again,” I say, and he glances at my hands, sharp and assessing.
“You keep telling yourself that,” he replies with that infuriating edge to his voice that means he thinks he’s won.
Magic stirs inside me, making the wind shift and the waves crash harder.
I force myself to turn back to the supplies, but even when I don’t see him, I feel him.
And that’s what I hate the most.
He pulls out a small pouch, frowning slightly.“Barley and... honeycomb?” he says. “Hardly seems worth the trunk space.”
I lean in closer, inhaling when his scent hits me too fast, too hard. Winter and pine. The sharp, familiar bite of frost.
My pulse trips over itself. A reaction I can’t control, no matter how much I want to.
