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I shook my head. “It’s just… Never mind.”
He was quiet for a moment, leading us around the edge of the dancing space. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
A flash of surprise. “Truly?”
When I nodded, he grunted. My tone was wary. “What?”
“You just… don’t carry yourself as someone so young. I thought you might be nearer to my own age.”
Thanks, it’s the trauma.
“Oh.”
His smile was softer. “It’s all right. Just a bit of a surprise.”
Then he moved us again, his feet as agile with the dancing as they were when we were sparring last night. The movement had the scars catching the nearest fire jar’s light, stark white compared to the warm gold of the rest of his skin. Without thinking, I traced one of them, the one that ran the entire side of his face from temple to jaw. Wisteria wrapped around us, strong enough I nearly groaned. His pulse fluttered in his throat, but his hold on me remained gentle.
“May I ask how these happened?” My voice was a bit hoarse. “Or is that too personal?”
“Urgul.” His voice was rough, too. His scent pulsed stronger for a moment. “I was in a town along the northern shore, staying with one of the smaller factions of soldiers stationed there, when a pack of them attacked one of the nearby farming collectives. We rode without hesitation, knowing most collectives wouldn’t survive an entire pack.”
“You did, though?”
He nodded. “One managed to get to me while I was getting a young girl to safety. The scars are a small price for knowing I helped her and the rest of her family and community.”
In that moment, I finally understood Sloane’s willingness to stay, to build something with Jacob. I understood because I felt it, deep in my bones with a ferocity that scared me, as I traced another of the scars that marred Callum’s face. I wanted to kiss him, wanted to taste him. Others around us had been kissing their partners sporadically, coming close enough to blush with the intimacy of it before separating and dancing again. But even as his scent grew stronger and I took that half-step closer so there was no space between our bodies, he didn’t lean down and initiate.
I will not touch you beyond this. Not until you request it.
He truly meant it. He wouldn’t initiate any kind of contact beyond those small touches. The words bubbled on my tongue, ready to be released into the tiny bit of space between us. And yet, as the night passed by, his hold never wavering on my waist while guiding me through steps of dances I didn’t know, they never passed my lips.
I wasn’t sure exactly why.
38
AMETHYST
The flame flickered lazily in the small fire jar on the desk, giving just enough illumination for me to cross the room and crawl onto the chaise. The man already stretched on the velvet cushion set down the book he’d been reading with a pinched expression.
“Cárias, what are you doing awake?”
His voice was warm and a bit hoarse, and it wrapped around me like the best hug.
“I feel weird,” I said. My voice was small, though, young and soft and too innocent.
The man crooned even as he cupped my cheek. His hazel eyes were nearly luminous in the low light, the way mine glowed when I was especially happy. A shiver raced down my spine as I realized he was the man from the other dream, the one that held the bloodstone in that forest. Nerves I couldn’t explain clogged my throat.
“You’re safe. I’ll always keep you safe,” he said, even quieter than before. “Do you want to cuddle with me until you can sleep?”
When I nodded, he gathered me to his chest. His fingers combed through my hair, and a soft happiness replaced the worry that had drawn me from bed. I curled into him and then reached for the small book, wanting to know if there were any pretty drawings like the book Mama had read to us a few nights before.
My hand was tiny, untouched and soft. The hand of a child.
Confusion laced my blood.
Why was I a child? Was this a dream?
