Page 4 of Crown Me (Immortal Vices and Virtues: All Hallows’ Eve #3)

Adeline

S tepping into the beautiful oasis concealed behind the crumbling wall should be an immense relief.

But the heat in my body only grows. An agitation in my stomach and a tingle in my fingertips where I planted my palms against Bron’s chest, heightened by the lingering scent of his skin…

Even the impossibly comforting warmth I experienced when he lowered his arms around me and held me steady, supporting me so I didn’t fall.

All of it has sent my thoughts into a spin.

He’s frozen a step inside the door, his gaze swiveling from one part of the garden to the next.

On one side, a small waterfall falls into a grotto. On the other, a stretch of lush grass provides a place to lie in the now-gentle sunlight. A long, curving path connects both sides while in the middle of the garden sits a magnificent weeping willow.

Its fronds descend from way up high down to the ground, many decorated with charms, pieces of cloth, and even beads. The objects appear random, but each has power in its own way.

“What is that?” Bron asks, his voice a deep growl, his focus clearly on the tree.

I narrow my eyes at him. I’d like to reply: The sacred tree from which you stole the precious crown.

But his brow is furrowed so intensely, I could believe he’s never laid eyes on it before.

Once again, I’m uncertain if the Crone got it right.

What if Bron isn’t the thief?

“The Tree of Lost Things,” I snap. “As well you know.”

His focus flashes to me. “I’ve never heard of it before.”

I return his glare.

I’m not oblivious to the undeniable fact that Bron could have walked away from me at any time if he wanted to. The minute I saw his bear—the moment it broke through my magic—I realized Bron’s only here because he’s pandering to my wishes for now.

If he stole the crown, I’m not sure how the Crone or the Mother intend to get it back from him.

“This way,” I say. “The Mother wants to speak with you.”

“I guess speak is better than interrogate ,” he mutters, taking careful steps along the path.

The track curves past the tree and the furrow returns to his brow. “What are those objects?”

Again, I treat his question with suspicion. “They have no magical power.”

A smile flickers around his lips. Lips that continue to draw me in. “Then why are you at great pains to walk between them and me?”

Oh, why does he irritate me so?

“They were lost to their owners,” I snap. “Which again, you would know.”

“Why haven’t they been returned?”

I stop walking. It’s a painful question, but I can’t detect a hint of malice in his expression.

“Because their owners are either no longer alive or can’t be found,” I reply. “The tree honors their memories by keeping safe things that were once treasured.”

Things whose only power is in the emotional value they had to their owner. At least, that is the case for the objects visible on the outside of the tree’s fronds.

I wait for Bron to ask more questions, since the only motivation I can imagine driving his questions is that he’s fishing for information. Maybe he wants me to disclose where the tree is hiding its other valuable cargo.

I’m not about to tell him about all the caverns within the tree’s canopy that contain lost objects of such immense power, they must be kept out of the wrong hands at all costs.

I’m certain he won’t be able to see it, but the magic within the tree is vibrating at the edge of my senses, an unrest in its boughs that speaks of the lost crown.

Bron remains quiet, taking another step along the path, his eyebrows arched, as if he’s waiting for me to follow him.

I can’t help but brush my hand across the black feather tied to one of the tree’s fronds.

Like every object on the tree’s outer leaves, the feather has no magical power or material worth. My queen tied it here on one of her rare visits back to the haven. It was to remind herself that no matter how dark things get, there is power in one’s heart.

It carries the same message to me.

Before I met the new queen, all I knew about power was that it was cruel.

My biological mother, a clever witch and the former queen of the witch’s world, used her magic to subjugate and break others. Sometimes purely because she could.

Our new queen is nothing like her and for the last five years, I’ve spent every waking moment proving to her that I will never become my mother?—

“Where have you gone?”

Bron’s quiet growl breaks through my thoughts.

“What?”

“You were somewhere else.”

I shake myself, shocked that I let down my guard.

If only he hadn’t held me so carefully back in the desert.

I respond by jabbing my finger toward what will appear to him to be an extended stretch of grass up ahead. “Walk.”

While this garden is unseen from outside the crumbling wall, a castle also sits unseen only twenty paces away from our current location. It won’t become visible until we step right up to the glass atrium at its front.

With a piercing look at me, he lumbers onward, but not before hitching up the tattered remains of his pants. His backside is hanging out and I’m certain he’s feeling the breeze.

I can’t help but take pity on him.

When he takes another step and the final thread keeping his pants up finally frays, I draw on my magic before the material can fall.

Power rushes from my fingertips, whisking the tattered cloth back into place, quickly weaving some of the critical strands together.

I consider my handiwork for a brief moment while he remains frozen where he stands, his back muscles tense where they’re visible through the shreds of his shirt.

Satisfied that his pants should hold for the rest of the walk, I say, “Not bad.”

My cheeks flush when I step up beside him and meet his enquiring gaze.

“The mending,” I quickly add. “ The mending is not bad. Obviously, I wasn’t talking about your… uh… Because that would be impolite. I certainly wouldn’t want some stranger commenting about my… uh…”

I clear my throat, my cheeks burning so hot, I could be standing out in the desert again.

“Well,” he rumbles, more quietly than I was expecting. “Thank you.” He quickly adds, “For the mending.”

I hurry forward, stop myself, wait for him to catch up to me, and then walk beside him.

Soon enough, the glass atrium appears, filled with plants, some potted, some growing across the walls and along the floor.

All of them look pretty, but some are poisonous to touch.

The Mother and the Crone don’t need to worry about them.

They’ve cultivated immunity to all of them. So have I, for that matter.

“Don’t brush up against anything,” I warn Bron. “Not if you wish to continue breathing.”

He immediately squishes his shoulders in, hunching over and attempting to make himself small.

I bite my lip when it very much doesn’t work.

There’s no diminishing this bear shifter’s stature.

Using my power, I gently part the vines trailing across the floor and push aside the wildest plants, enabling him to tiptoe safely through them.

We’re past the poisonous plants within a few steps, since they form another row of defense against unwanted intruders at the atrium’s entrance, but I don’t have the heart to tell him that.

He seems so focused on avoiding every bit of foliage and immensely pleased with himself when he gets to the other side of the atrium unscathed.

“Still breathing,” he announces, grinning at me as he takes a deep breath and allows his broad chest to expand.

“So glad,” I murmur.

What really surprises me is that I mean it. No sarcasm at all.

Of course, he doesn’t know that.

His deadpan stare reveals how cynically he views my response.

I open my mouth to clarify, wanting to tell him I did mean it, even if he didn’t really have anything to fear after those first steps, but I stop myself.

It shouldn’t matter to me if he thinks I’m cold.

I’ve been cold most of my life. Prickly. Defensive. Cruel to those who were cruel to others. I had to be. It’s the only way I survived my mother’s violent reign.

Taking a deep breath and forcing back the dark memories, I prepare to tell Bron for the thousandth time to move along, but somehow, all I accomplish is to fill my chest with his comforting bear scent and all of a sudden…

I’d give anything to be back in his arms.

Even if I tripped into them in a fashion that embarrassed the hell out of me.

I find myself stepping into his personal space, drawn in by the softening curve of his lips and openness in his eyes. The slightly crooked smile he gives me, as if maybe he believes I did mean it when I said I was glad.

But the moment he raises his bound hands, I’m jolted back to myself.

I have no idea what he was going to do with his hands. Maybe keep me at bay.

Quickly clearing my throat, I step back, forcing space between us.

Firmly, I tell myself: The sooner I hand Bron over to the Mother, the better.