Page 16

Evander

Q uinn and I walk the short distance to the kitchen together. It’s late now, and I assumed the kitchen would be as deserted as the main room and dining area are. But as I push the double doors open, I’m pleasantly surprised to see Bria and Ash sitting together, knees touching, deep in conversation.

Bria is facing the door, one elbow resting on the table next to her, propping up her head.

Her normally straight hair falls to the side, sliding over a shoulder in waves of precious metal glinting gold and bronze.

Her eyes are heavy with fatigue, the long lashes brushing against her cheeks like she’s close to passing out.

My heart skips a full beat when I stare at her, struck by her beauty all over again.

It doesn’t get any easier, and I swear she just gets better with age.

I only glimpse her relaxed like that for a moment before her head snaps up when she catches sight of us, so focused on her conversation with Ash that she must not have heard the doors to the kitchen open.

Ash spins around to face us after seeing the wide-eyed look of surprise spread across Bria’s face.

“What happened?” Bria cries out, jumping up from the stool and nearly knocking it back with the force.

She runs toward me, not sparing a glance at Quinn, which makes my heart surge in my chest. She grabs my arm and yanks it toward her to examine the wound before I can protest. Pain from the movement stabs through me, and I grind my teeth together to keep from screaming.

Ash, however, rises calmly and walks to the corner of the room, grabbing a decanter of something, likely whiskey, and four small glasses. She carries them to the table and kicks a stool out for Quinn.

“Sit. And get talking,” she commands as she begins pouring the amber liquid into the glasses.

“We got to the village just as they were under attack.” Quinn obliges her as he strips off his sword and daggers and unbuckles his armor.

Dragging himself to the stool, he drops his cache of armor and weapons on the floor next to him and slumps down.

He runs both of his hands through his obsidian hair, pulling it out of the disheveled knot before letting them fall to the table.

Meanwhile, Bria pulls me by the hand to the corner of the room where Ash had retrieved the alcohol. I let her guide me, the warmth from her hand comforting and reassuring. And as she turns to grab a glass bottle of grain alcohol, I tug loose my sword and unhook the bandolier from across my chest.

Quinn picks up the whiskey and shoots it back, hissing at the burn before jumping into the remainder of the story for Ash.

I stop listening as he tells her of the fighting in the village and the king’s men.

He’s going to tell her how many we killed and how many villagers fell to the Crown today.

Ash tips the decanter and pours more into his glass before taking a sip of her own as she listens.

I don’t want to hear any more of it. I want to leave today in the past.

I look at Bria, knowing just her presence alone is enough to distract me.

She stretches up on the tops of her toes to reach a cloth on the upper shelf, her short frame barely making it.

Her feet are bare, despite the cool floor in the kitchen.

Her hair cascades down her back as she lifts her arms and I have the sudden urge to run my hands through it again, to grab a fistful of the golden strands.

The loose tunic she wears drops to the side, revealing her bare shoulder—a sliver of creamy ivory.

Quinn is giving Ash information about the boy. About Silas. I hear his name but I’m wholly focused on that harmless patch of skin that has me raging with want. Bria turns hastily, the rag in her hand, her cobalt eyes shining as she looks at me.

“He has magic?” she asks quietly with expectant eyes. Quinn and Ash continue talking in the background.

The hope I see in her makes it all the more pleasing to inform her that the boy does, in fact, possess power. And a lot of it.

“Yes,” I say, smiling back at her. The eagerness in her tone is endearing. “His name is Silas. I’m sure Cato will want to meet him tomorrow. He will likely want you to meet him as well.”

Her grin widens, her button nose scrunching and making her round, rosy cheeks a deeper shade of pink.

Bria’s excitement is palpable—I can feel the heat rising off her body and she nearly bounces on her toes.

She grabs the glass bottle and unscrews the top, but I notice the wince and the way she gingerly sets the top down on the counter, her hand lingering above it for a moment.

Before I know what I’m doing, I reach out and grab her hand. Grasping it in my own and inspecting it, I flip her hand over and look for any wound just as she had done with my arm.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, letting the concern I feel play across my face.

“It’s nothing,” she responds but doesn’t remove her hand. “It’s just sore from today. From training,” she explains hurriedly.

I stare at her, wondering what kind of training she means. Definitely something with magic to leave no wounds but keep her in pain like this.

I slide my thumb across the back of her hand, rubbing small circles over the pale skin. “You need to rest. You’re tired and in pain.”

She snorts at me. Actually snorts, and fuck if it isn’t the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.

“I’m not the one who almost got carved to pieces like a fucking turkey,” she counters, but the smile remains.

Her eyes almost twinkle as she says it, the glittering behind them a sign of her magic, the same way Silas’s eyes have that burning glow to them.

I’ve witnessed the burn in Bria’s before, but only occasionally.

I look at my arm. The wound has clotted over but is still in desperate need of cleaning.

“Get on with it then, Commander Lansing ,” she teases, feigning impatience and tapping her bare foot on the floor. But the tone she takes does nothing to squash the desire rising in me. It only fuels that fire.

“Yes, my lady ,” I reply, watching as she rolls her eyes with the jab at her old title.

I unfasten the clips and straps of the leather vest, removing the armor and placing it on the counter beside us.

Grabbing the neck of the tunic and pulling it over my head, I let out a hiss, the stretch of my arm pulling at the edges of the fresh wound.

The crystal amulet around my neck drops back onto my chest, the light of the room catching on it.

I toss the tunic to the ground, not caring where it ends up because I only care about her.

She’s staring, her bright blue eyes boldly roaming over the bare skin of my chest and lingering over the amulet before dropping lower, making me happy I’ve been training with Quinn lately and it shows in the ripple of muscles.

I’ll train every fucking day with him if it means she looks at me like that.

She tugs the side of her bottom lip between her teeth, bruising the soft flesh and sending a wave of excitement through my body.

She blinks, no doubt realizing she’s staring, though I have no problem with it. In fact, I ache for her to keep staring at me like that and am disappointed when she shifts her focus to the wound ripping down the flesh of my arm. It’s maybe six inches long. Deep, but not hitting anything major.

I raise an eyebrow and tilt my head to the side, throwing her a flirty smile, letting her know I tracked her gaze. A flush rises to her cheeks as she catches my grin, her eyes still glittering, and she releases her lip from the grip of her teeth.

“It isn’t that bad, is it?” I know it’s bad, but it isn’t a wound I’m going to die from.

“It’s not great, but you’ll live, you idiot,” she chides, gathering the linen cloth and soaking it with alcohol until the smell permeates my nostrils. “And I’m sure you’ll be back out there training or on patrol tomorrow,” she adds, setting her lips in a firm and irritated line.

I show a flash of teeth, grinning back at her. “Ahh, you know me so well.”

Letting out a soft chuckle, I reach for the glass bottle, taking a long swig of the obscene liquid and wincing before turning to lean back against the counter. I wrap my fingers around the side, steeling myself for the pain.

Across the room, Quinn and Ash are discussing the villagers and where they will be housed. But my ears, my eyes, my whole body is tuned in to Bria.

She moves in front of me, so close I can feel the loose fabric of her shirt brush the bare skin of my torso as she reaches up and presses the cloth to my arm.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I brace my body against the stinging sensation and tighten my grip on the counter, my fingers digging into the hard surface.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Her other hand touches my chest. I feel the warmth of her skin and open my eyes.

She still holds the cloth to my left arm, pressing it into the wound, but her other hand moves to grasp the ancient amulet around my neck.

Her fingers are long and slim, her nails cut short as they curl around the crystal. I pull my gaze up to meet hers.

Beautiful. Stunning. Breathtaking. Take your pick because all of those words describe her. Those deep blue eyes are set on mine, making it hard to breathe. Hard to think. I swear they are glittering more now, almost as if there are blue flames locked inside.

“You still wear this?” she asks, her voice low, quiet enough that the others cannot hear our conversation.

It’s a symbol of the Keeper, of Lilith and Kiara, of the prophecy. A gleaming orange globe of sunstone, orbited by a pearly white moonstone, fused together with a silver circle—the crest of the god Uldnoir, adopted after he left his mortal body and this world.