Page 64

Amaria was quick to shake her head. Amethyst tensed, so subtle neither woman noticed. Her breathing didn’t change. Her eyes didn’t even flutter. It was a very impressive illusion of sleep. But the fire flared brighter, licking along the top of the jar’s lid. She was certainly awake.

“Did she eat?”

“She fell asleep before it was ready,” Shelby said, carefully packing up the rest of her bag. “The innkeeper’s wife left it on the table for when she woke.”

It was only then I focused on the other side of the simple house. Sure enough, a tray of limellos, bread, and rabbit stew sat untouched on the table.

“Callum?” Amaria’s voice was more hesitant than I’d heard.

She stood, a fire jar crossed over her chest and resting on her hip, her cloak draped over one arm. Shelby quickly came to stand beside her, her saddlebag laid over top of her own cloak.

“Yes?”

“I… I know she’s to return to her Arizona,” Amaria said. “But until then, I think we should all tread…” She searched for the right word. “We should be cautious in how we approach her. Her Arizona is nothing like Avicourt—beyond the lack of magic in the way we have.”

“All right,” I said, drawing the words out. Amethyst’s brows furrowed for a heartbeat before smoothing out again. “What makes you think that?”

“She knows nothing of being an omega. I don’t think it’s something her Arizona has, not the way we do.”

I couldn’t help but frown. My feet took me across the room without any order from me. I hesitated in front of the sofa, dropping into a crouch. Her hand twitched on the jar, and I swallowed down a sound that was way too revealing in front of her ladies.

“Nothing at all?” The words were nearly hoarse. Damn.

I ripped my gaze away from her for long enough to see Shelby shake her head.

“She didn’t know what a heat was,” she admitted. “Or why you wouldn’t travel without her now that she’s needing your scent.”

I stretched my neck, carefully reordering the ways in which I needed to approach her. If she had no concept of what an omega was—their desire for comfort and safety and need for an alpha’s reassuring touch and scent and voice—then I would need to be even more careful in handling her the next week through the forest.

The fire in her palm flicked faster, responding to her magic. It shone brighter on her face, limning it in a soft glow that had her lips darkening to that almost rose hue I’d only seen once or twice over the mountains. Her hair fell across her chest, the dark strands slightly curved from the styling Shelby had done the prior morning. It sat stark and bold against her creamy skin.

Goddess Almighty, she was gorgeous.

The restraint holding me back from touching her crumbled away. I ran my thumb along her cheekbone and then the line of her jaw, careful to avoid the botched translation tattoo behind her ear. She moved into the touch, just a bit.

The old language gathered on my tongue, the name fully formed and desperate to be spoken into existence. My restraint there, too, collapsed.

“Sterre,” I murmured.

One of the women sucked in a hard breath.

Persynthia help me, the name felt made for her, an endearment as much as an ancient title. I allowed myself to say it again if just to know the way it felt on my lips, so I could remember it in six months when she was no longer with me.

“Sterre, are you awake?”

Her eyes slowly blinked open, her gaze unseeing for a moment. She clutched the fire jar closer to her and then slowly sat up, her hair falling over her shoulders and into her face. I carefully brushed the strands away, tucking them behind her ear.

This was so incredibly foolish. I couldn’t allow myself to continue to know the feel of her skin against mine. It would haunt me until the day I went on to Arcadia to join my mother and the others that had gone on before. And yet I couldn’t stop myself from tracing her jaw again with my thumb as I slowly pulled away. Her orange and vanilla scent lazily twined around me, nearly like one of the tendrils of the earth, enticing me forward. The crusted blood under my nails was a stark contrast to her smooth complexion. I dropped my hand, resting my elbows on my thighs to keep from being tempted again.

She was slow to respond, like she was truly just waking up and trying to orient herself within the context of the room. It was a masterful performance. Distantly, I wondered if she had reason to pretend she was asleep often.

“Are you well?” I asked.

Her focus slowly moved from me to the women behind me, still standing beside the chair. She moved cautiously as she sat up completely, the jar of fire still pressed against her stomach even as her cloak sat askew, revealing most of the brown fabric of my sweater she still wore. There was that blended mess festering deeper under my skin. I did my best to ignore it.

“My eyes hurt,” she admitted.

And then the mess twisted in on itself, morphing into nothing but dread.