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“How’d you learn to do this?” I ask, placing my hand in her lap.

She turns it palm up and begins tracing the lines there as if she’s searching for something in particular. “A dear friend of mine, Ioana, taught me.” Her throat bobs, and I know she must be talking about Ioana Valcov, the fortuneteller. “You would’ve liked her quite a bit, I think. Maybe even more than you like me.”

“What happened to her?”

“Mihal killed her.” She runs a finger directly up the center of my palm. “Florin was her familiar.”

“Was Ioana a witch?”

The ocean breeze ruffles her hair. “A vampire, but she loved witchcraft dearly. She was the type of female to forge her own path, and along that path, she collected elements she loved from other creatures. The concept of familiars from witches, the celebration of the full moon from werewolves…” She trails off. “You would’ve liked her,” she says again.

I close one hand around hers. “I’m sorry.”

She smiles and releases me. “You see this line here?” She drags her finger diagonally across the softer part of my palm, right below my fingers. I nod. “This is your heartline.” It’s quite long, stretching from below my index finger to the far end of my littlest finger. “It’s length and depth signal contentment in your relationship.”

I can’t help but glance at Quill and grin.

Risna rolls her eyes and traces the line cutting directly up the center of my palm. “This one is your fate line. It’s also lengthy, which may correlate to your mating bond with Quill, but these two little branches here”—she prods a spot on my skin—“signal two different fates. Likely your path diverting once you died by Quill’s bite rather than your sister’s hand.”

I stare at my palm, wholly absorbed as Risna goes through it line by line until finally she taps the curved line next to my thumb and grins. “If this pretty little line here is any indication, you will live a very fulfilling second life. I⁠—”

“You have to be quicker than this,” Quill roars. “I need a challenge.”

Risna swivels to glance at the males down the shore. “Give it two minutes and a fight will ensue with Carver frolicking our way to watch with glee.”

My eyes widen. “You think?”

“I know it,” she says. “Quill has that tone that Eivor dislikes.” Her voice is barely audible over the waves and the growing commotion as she adds, “Reminds him of his father.”

Eivor growls as he hurls his axe at the same time Carver throws a spear. Like a shadow, Quill dodges both, rolling across the sand and catching Eivor’s axe with one hand and the spear with the other before launching the weapons back at them.

His jaw clenches. “Mihal’s power is faster than lightning. Let’s use it.”

“No,” Eivor says flatly.

Carver whistles, running a hand through his already mussed hair. Without a word, he bows out of the sparring match, jogging across the sand, and drops down next to me. “This should be good.”

Risna elbows me with a sly grin that clearly says, Told you so.

“No?” Quill repeats, irritation ebbing off him as thick as beeswax.

Eivor folds his arms across his broad chest, pectoral muscles jumping. “If you’re not speedy enough, I could roast you on the spot. I won’t risk it.”

“It’s the only way to ensure I—” Quill cuts himself off, eyes widening. “Riven.”

The rest of us simultaneously follow his gaze. Somehow, the fae king was able to sneak up on a beach full of vampires.

“Come now, brother,” says a smug, unfamiliar voice. “You can’t be that surprised to see me. After all, you sent a letter begging for my support.”

The fae king stalks across the beach with a swagger that is both admirable and entirely too punchable. From the glittering crown resting atop his dark, golden-brown hair to the pointy tips of his boots, a twin to his ears, he’s undeniably handsome, and he’s well aware of it. Not even the light dusting of facial hair along his strong jaw or the cruel smirk twisting his full lips takes away from his unearthly beauty. Clad in black, save for his crown of gold, he carries himself with the air of someone with unsurmountable power. Shadows from sleepless nights, endless travel, or something far more sinister pool beneath his dark-blue eyes, contrasting against his pearl-white skin.

Riven’s attention drifts over the kindred without pause until his eyes land on me. I hold his assessing gaze, unflinching, for barely a breath before he deems me beneath him, and turning his full attention back on Quill, he says, “I’ll save you from groveling in front of your mate. If you want my vote, there’s something you need to do for me first.”

Chapter 32

QUILL

Fucking fae bastard.