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Then the echoes of their conversation, muffled by the wall, filtered to her ears.

“You have to admit, El, she really did a number on you.” Beldor’s rich laughter washed through the stone, laced with teasing notes.

Her escape plans paused, curiosity chaining her to the spot. Despite her better judgment, she pressed her ear closer to the stone wall, thirsting for the fragments of conversation. Who was she? Anthea’s mind whispered, conjuring images. Could it be Lyra? It couldn’t be her—could it?

Fyrlion’s lighter chuckle came next, paired with the words, “Not many from the Nephrite legion can boast about leaving such a mark on him.”

“Drop it, or I’ll show you what a bruise really looks like on someone’s body.” The soft rumble of Eldrion’s voice seeped through the rock, laced with warning.

Then a splash echoed, playful and light. Beldor’s voice came again, “How many marks has Anthea left on you now?”

A sharp breath escaped her lips.

“We are not alone.” Fyrlion’s voice cut through the thick steam.

Anthea stumbled backward. She had been caught. The floor, slick from condensation, offered no grip, and with a gasp, she went tumbling back into the pool—the water swallowing her in its warm embrace, her towel floating away, leaving her bare.

In an instant, the three elves appeared.

Flustered and soaked, Anthea fumbled for her fallen towel, trying in vain to wrap its wet length around herself. With her back turned to them, she stammered. “I-I was just leaving. You all . . . startled me.” Finally having managed to wrap the soaked towel around herself, she turned around, meeting Eldrion’s startled gray eyes, Beldor’s amused green eyes, and Fyrlion’s assessing hazel eyes.

“Well, if it isn’t our very own Anthea. We were just talking about you, what a coincidence.” Beldor grinned, the twinkle in his eyes unmistakable.

“Eldrion can handle this,” Fyrlion said, grabbing Beldor by his shoulder.

Beldor’s response, “I don’t know if—” was abruptly cut off when Fyrlion tugged him swiftly out of the chamber.

Left in the echoing silence with Eldrion, Anthea fixed her gaze intently on his face, willing her eyes not to wander. “Do you mind?” She gestured vaguely toward his naked form.

“Were you eavesdropping, Anthea?” he asked, voice low, every word deliberate.

“I didn’t exactly set out to eavesdrop,” she said defensively, holding his probing gaze, “but when people talk about me, it’s hard not to listen. And, to be fair, you were being rather loud.” Anthea’s eyes involuntarily darted down, her eyes widening as they landed on a large, greenish yellow bruise marring Eldrion’s muscular thigh. He had brushed off her concern, assuring her it hadn’t hurt when she had practiced her stabbing on him. Her cheeks blazed a fierce red as she realized where exactly her eyes had landed—he was . . . impressive. She had felt it earlier against her hip, but seeing it laid bare before her eyes. She bit her lip, rubbing her thighs together. Anthea quickly lifted her gaze back to his face and cleared her throat. “Speaking of which . . . What was that all about?” Her voice came out higher than she would have liked.

Eldrion’s eyes darkened slightly. “You hit harder than you think,” he murmured.

Anthea swallowed and cleared her throat again. “Would you . . . do you mind covering up?”

The elf blinked. It was as if he truly hadn’t realized his state of undress until that moment. Hurriedly, he reached for a nearby towel, draping it swiftly around his waist. “I . . . I apologize. It wasn’t my intention to . . . This isn’t . . .”

Anthea kept her eyes on him as she climbed out of the pool. She had never seen him so flustered before. His cheeks tinged with a slight blush as he rubbed the back of his neck. It was almost endearing. “It’s okay,” she said, attempting to lighten the mood. “Just, um, maybe remember the towel next time?” She offered him a tentative smile.

“Next time?” Eldrion’s brows arched.

Anthea felt the warmth spread across her cheeks once again. Felt her body react to his deep voice. This was not happening. “I only meant—” she began, turning to retrieve a fresh, dry towel from a nearby rack. But as she swirled back around, she halted in surprise. He had moved closer, considerably so. And she suddenly became very aware of the droplets of water glinting on his chest, highlighting the sinewy lines of muscle. Swallowing hard, she tilted her head back, lifted her eyes to his. There was a depth of concern in his gaze that made her heart skip a beat.

“Do they still hurt? Your back—the wounds.”

Anthea exhaled softly. “No, not anymore.”

Eldrion nodded slightly, his eyes never leaving hers as he gently took her wrist in his hand. The very one he had broken. Anthea watched him, her breath caught in her throat as he lifted it to his lips. The warmth of his breath brushed her wrist a second before the softest of kisses landed, a delicate touch of his lips against her pulse.

“Forgive me,” he murmured against her skin. Another kiss followed, firmer this time, his lips lingering, sending a shiver cascading through her frame. Anthea’s heart thundered, and a startled realization washed over her as she felt the thrum of his heartbeat underneath her hand that was resting against his chest. When had she placed it there?

Another kiss, open mouthed with a flick of tongue and a scrape of teeth landed on her forearm.

A soft gasp escaped her slightly parted lips.

Eldrion froze, nostrils flaring. He could smell her—smell her reaction to him.