Riven’s next to me a moment later, studying the horizon, his presence pressing against me like a growing storm.
“Which one are we heading toward?” he asks, glancing back and forth between both islands.
I force myself to focus. Not on him—not on the way my magic stirs in his presence—but on the island. The one bathed in moonlight, its soft sands gleaming, its trees swaying in the warm breeze.
“The peaceful looking one,” I say with relief, stepping away from him.
Breathe,I think.Focus on the salty sea air—onanythingbut him.
“Yes, it does look peaceful,” he muses, watching the shoreline as our ship glides forward. “Which is exactly why it might be dangerous.”
I turn to him, frowning. “You think the one with the creepy, cloud-covered tower is thelessdangerous option?”
“The most dangerous places are the ones that invite you in,” he replies, watching the welcoming, serene island with distrust. “After all, the deadliest predators are usually the most beautiful.”
His words sink into me before I realize what he’s doing—before I catch the pointed glance he slides in my direction and the slow, knowing smirk that follows.
The waves lap harder against the sides of the ship, the wind blowing the sails slightly off course.
Riven watches, amused but unconvinced.
“Thinking about how much you hate me?” he asks, his voice as smooth as the sea. Then softer, more invitingly, he adds, “Or perhaps about how beautiful I am?”
I focus on the winds, getting us back on course, which is the only thing keeping me from throttling him.
“I’m thinking we’re better off avoiding the island that looks like it belongs to a villain monologuing from his iron throne,” I say, although I can’t help looking at the paradise-like island with more caution now.
“Fair enough,” he says, although I can tell he isn’t convinced.
As we move closer, the details of the island sharpen. Thick, sprawling trees loom over the sand, their gnarled roots snaking out like fingers grasping for something unseen. And then?—
Pigs.
Dozens of them.
They roam freely, their hooves sinking into the damp shore, snouts buried in the sand as they search for whatever it is pigs look for.
“I guess whoever lives here is a farmer?” I say, trying to make sense of it.
Riven ignores me, instead reaching into the pack and pulling out a small bundle of white flowers with black roots—the herb the cloaked girl left for him. And then, without hesitation, he plucks off a few leaves and pops them into his mouth, chewing with a grimace.
I arch a brow. “Good?”
“Tastes like dirt,” he says swallowing with visible effort. “With a hint of regret.”
I laugh, but the sound dies abruptly when another wave of hunger crashes into me.
Because the pigs are alive. Their hearts are beating, their blood warm, their scent thick in the humid air.
Most importantly, they can stop me from losing control and pouncing on Riven.
I swallow hard, fisting my hands as I gather every bit of willpower to not jump into the ocean and swim to the shore. The only thing that keeps me from doing so is knowing that whenever I’ve jumped into bodies of water recently, there’s a blank spot in my memories when I emerge.
“If you’re going to drink,” Riven says, low but firm, “you need to be careful.”
I whip my head toward him, the wind blowing with my movements. “Iamcareful.”
He doesn’t argue. He just watches me, his gaze steady, sharp as a blade.
