“Listen to me,” he says, and something in his tone makes me press my lips together to do just that. “Whoever owns this islandmight not take kindly to you killing their livestock. So, you’re going to take small drinks from multiple pigs. Four of them, at least. And you will not drain them. Understood?”
“I know how to handle myself,” I say as heat burns up my spine, a mix of anger and frustration.
“Then prove it.”
The challenge in his voice coils through me like a slow-burning fuse.
Because it’s not the pigs that will make me lose control. It’s him. His voice. His scent. His heartbeat.
And I’m positive that he knows it.
But not wanting to give in to whatever he’s trying to do to me, I exhale sharply, forcing my body to steady.
“Fine. Four pigs,” I agree. “No killing.”
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and before I can decide if I want to punch him or shove him into the ocean, he turns, adjusting the sails as we draw closer to shore.
I practically leap from the ship the moment we’re docked.
Behind me, Riven says something about anchoring the boat properly. But his voice fades beneath the roaring in my ears—the sound of dozens of heartbeats, the rush of blood through warm bodies, the promise of relief from the hunger.
The first pig barely has time to startle before I’m on it, and as I drink, the hunger lessens. My body drinks it in, and my magic hums as warmth spreads through my limbs, numbing the sharpest edges of my craving.
But Riven’s voice echoes in my mind.
Four pigs. No killing.
So, I drink just enough to take the edge off, then move to a second pig, a third, and finally, a fourth. By the time I finish, I feel steadier, clearer, my magic humming contentedly beneath my skin.
Now that I can think again, I look for Riven. He’s secured the ship, and he’s standing at the edge of the shore, his sword sheathed but ready.
“Better?” he asks me, but a column of fire erupts from the sand between us before I can reply, reaching toward the sky with such intensity that I have to shield my eyes.
I call water from the ocean, feeling it surge toward my hands, ready to strike.
Riven’s by my side in a heartbeat, his sword drawn, ice crawling along the blade.
The pigs squeal and hurry off.
And then, as quickly as it appeared, the flames dies down.
A woman now stands in its place.
She’s tall and regal, her dark curls spilling down her back in wild, twisting waves, streaked with gold like threads of fire woven through the strands. Her royal purple gown is embroidered with symbols I don’t recognize, and her eyes gleam with something far too knowing.
“Well,” she says, her voice rich and musical, “it’s been quite some time since I’ve had visitors who weren’t sailors or merchants.” Her gaze shifts between Riven and me—assessing, calculating, and eventually warming. “Welcome to Aeaea. I’m Circe—the sorceress who rules this island—and tonight, the two of you are my honored guests.”
