Page 6 of Gabriel (Legacy of Heathens #4)
Amara
Eight Months Later
T he air was alpine crisp, scented with pine, damp moss, and the faint sweetness of wildflowers. Slovenia in late summer felt like someone had photoshopped the entire country—too green, too blue, too impossibly serene to be real.
We had hiked for over two hours to get here, sweat slicking our backs, our boots caked with dirt and stubborn gravel. But the view? The view was worth everything.
From this ridge, the entire valley opened up beneath us.
Lake Bled glowed sapphire under the late afternoon sun, with its fairy-tale island floating in the center like a secret.
The little monastery on it sat in still perfection, while Bled Castle clung to a cliff edge nearby like it had been painted into the scene by someone with excellent taste and a flair for the dramatic.
This year has felt like a fairy tale—unreal, beautiful, and a little out of time. Just like this castle.
Elira, my adoptive sister, and I had been backpacking our way across Europe, and we’d loved every second of it. We started in Albania, where Grandfather Kian Cortes still lives, and wandered north from there—one train, one trail, one sunset at a time.
Some people our age blitz through thirty countries in thirty days. Not us. We weren’t checking boxes, but rather collecting moments. Month by month, place by place, we let the world unfold slowly, savoring each sight and experience.
When this trip concluded, I’d be back in New York, running back and forth to Las Vegas, because that was my parents’ legacy, and Elira would return to Boston where Mother Liana lived.
Elira took a long swig from her water bottle, then offered it to me. “If I die here, scatter my ashes over that lake and make it look like an accident.”
“You plan on dying soon?” I asked, breathless, half laughing.
“Only if we have to hike back down.”
She collapsed into the grass with a dramatic groan, yanking off her boots and socks like they’d personally offended her.
Her toenails were painted a glossy, unapologetic purple—something that caught me off guard every time.
Elira wasn’t exactly the girly type—until you looked at her feet.
Then it was glitter, color, the whole chaotic spectrum.
She wiggled her toes like she’d just conquered a mountain—and maybe, technically, she had.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” she said.
“You’re loving this as much as I am,” I retorted, flopping down beside her.
“I doubt it,” she replied, stretching out on her back. “And let’s not forget that you made it seem like a stroll around the lake and you bribed me with coffee. I was already halfway dressed before I realized you meant real hiking and not some bougie nature walk with a wine tasting at the end.”
“Okay, that part I’ll admit.”
A comfortable silence settled between us, filled only with the rustle of trees and the occasional birdcall. This trip had been my idea, my childhood wish. We spent months tracking Europe, light backpacks, no set itinerary.
“I wish Jet were here,” Elira muttered.
“Yeah, me too.” Jet had always been overprotective of both of us, but he and Elira shared a twin bond that ran deeper than anything I’d ever seen.
Lately though, he’d been keeping his distance.
It started after that strange night at the club.
I’d asked him about it, pressed for answers, but all he said was that he’d dropped by to check out the place and happened to run into an old acquaintance. He wouldn’t say who.
“Think he’s okay?” I asked softly without looking at her.
Elira didn’t answer immediately. “Jet’s always okay. So yeah…”
We didn’t talk more about it. Jet was my family, regardless that we weren’t blood-related, but I worried about his impulsiveness sometimes. If he was quiet for too long, it usually meant one of two things: he was fine and avoiding emotional intimacy, or he was in deep trouble.
“Are you still in touch with your girlfriends from D’Arc?” Elira asked, catching me off guard.
“Yeah, of course. We’ve got a group chat, but we don’t text every day.” I tilted my head back, letting the sun warm my face. “Anya should be landing in Albania right about now actually. She’s going to make that country her portfolio or something.”
“Really?” There was mild curiosity in Elira’s voice, though she didn’t sound surprised. My adoptive siblings hadn’t gone to D’Arc—they’d chosen a prestigious university in the U.K. instead—but they always knew who was doing what. From an early age, they’d learned that information was power.
“Arianna, Skye, and Penelope are happily married,” I went on. “Gianna and Francesca are probably causing chaos at D’Arc.”
Elira let out a soft laugh. “Those two? Definitely trouble.”
I was just about to ask if she wanted to head back when my phone buzzed in the grass between us.
Unknown Number: Meet me in Paris in one week. Same place Mom and Giovanni celebrated their anniversary. J
Elira’s phone buzzed a second later. Same message.
We both sat up.
“Talk about impeccable timing,” I murmured. I reread the text, then turned my screen to Elira. She was already holding hers up to show me. “He knows we’re backpacking, right? It’s not like we can run to Paris.”
“He knows. He’s probably assuming we’re using a jet when we get too tired,” she said, eyebrows lifting.
I scoffed. “He doesn’t give us enough credit.”
She shrugged. “No matter. We’re going to Paris, and I’m actually looking forward to some action.”
My eyebrow arched. “Are we talking like man action or…?”
“Paris, here we come,” she answered instead, ignoring my question.
I nodded, heart picking up speed. “Did you notice he’s using an untraceable number?”
“Yep.” Elira exhaled and started pulling her socks and boots back on. “We better get moving. It will take us a while to hitchhike all the way to Paris.”
“Or we can simply text back and say we’ll be there when we get there,” I suggested sarcastically.
She chuckled, knowing it was an empty threat.