Page 17

Rosselyn’s chest tightened with that same ache she’d nursed for over a year. Not just for Nicabar—but for everything he represented. A life untethered. A life of motion and music, of belonging to nothing but herself.

The camp breathed with that promise. Warmth and wildness wrapped around her, drawing her in as she followed Davina deeper into the heart of it.

Davina turned, her eyes dancing in the firelight. “You’ve been restless since we arrived. Go on, Rosselyn. I know why you wanted to come.” She gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Find him. I’ll look around for something to bring Uncle Tammus back into a better mood.”

Rosselyn hesitated. Just for a moment. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Davina’s smile held no judgment—only encouragement. “Go on, now.”

With a breath that reached all the way to her toes, Rosselyn nodded and slipped away into the crowd.

Her eyes swept the shifting bodies—flashes of crimson skirts, swirling shawls, gold gleaming at ears and wrists. She approached a few Romani, her voice soft and polite. “Do you know where I might find Nicabar?”

Each time, a shrug, a vague gesture toward the deeper shadows of the camp.

She thanked them, though her pulse surged with every step. The music melted into the thrum of her blood.

And then…

There he was.

Across the clearing, Nicabar leaned into the glow of firelight, arms crossed, jaw shadowed in gold. His dark eyes locked on hers, unblinking, and heated. A promise. A possession.

He didn’t smile.

But the corner of his mouth quirked, just enough to encourage her .

Rosselyn’s breath caught as their eyes locked.

Between them, the dancers spun and swayed, a vivid blur of movement and sound, but she saw only him.

His presence was magnetic, drawing her in with a pull she couldn’t resist. Her feet moved of their own accord, weaving through the crowd as she tried to close the distance between them.

Nicabar didn’t make it easy. Each time she stepped closer, he shifted just out of sight, then reappeared, his gaze never wavering. He moved with the ease of a predator—unhurried, graceful, and utterly in control. A slow smile finally curved his lips, and Rosselyn’s cheeks flushed with heat.

Her lips tilted into a sly grin of her own, confidence blooming beneath his attention.

Two could play. She eased her pace, letting her gaze sweep the camp as if he’d lost her interest, pretending to be drawn to a nearby cart or the embroidered scarf of a passing dancer.

But she felt his stare rake over her skin, kindling embers in her belly.

Then, in a blink—he vanished.

The crowd surged between them, and when the laughter faded and the dancers spun away, he was gone.

Her heart stuttered. Panic whispered. She pivoted, scanning the shadows behind a painted vardo, her steps careful, her pulse thundering.

“Looking for someone, mi corazón ?”

The voice—low and rich—brushed her ear like velvet.

Warm breath fanned her skin, and then his body aligned to hers, solid heat pressing into her back. One hand ghosted over her waist, the other resting at her hip. She went still as the firm ridge of his arousal pressed against her.

“Nicabar,” she whispered, breath trembling.

He hummed low, the sound curling around her like a caress.

Her breath stuttered as he guided her backward, hands firm and sure, maneuvering her away from the crowd and into the shadows behind the wagon.

The pulse of drums and laughter dulled, muffled by the vardo’s painted wooden walls, but the fire of Nicabar’s body—his breath at her ear, the teasing brush of his lips—burned away everything else.

Rosselyn turned to face him, her back pressing into the wagon. Nicabar’s hands slid slowly up her arms, each stroke measured, a caress meant to linger. His dark eyes captured hers, molten with longing and restraint as his thumb traced the curve of her jaw.

“It has been far too long,” he murmured, his voice rough with need.

“Far too long,” she echoed, her voice trembling against his.

He leaned in, brushing his lips over hers—a kiss so tender, so devastatingly sweet, it stole the air from her lungs.

She melted into him, hands gliding over the firm planes of his chest, clutching at his shirt as if to anchor herself to the moment.

The kiss deepened, months of separation unraveling in the press of lips, the tangle of fingers in hair, the tilt of her head as he claimed her more fully.

Rosselyn gasped when his body pressed tighter to hers, his heat consuming. Her fingers curled into his shoulders, grounding herself as the kiss spun into something darker, more desperate. She needed him. All of him.

Nicabar broke the kiss first, his forehead resting against hers, breath ragged between them.

“Rosselyn,” he rasped, voice hoarse with desire. “Do you want to come to my vardo?”

She looked up, her lips swollen from his mouth, her eyes smoldering. “I thought you’d never ask.”

A slow, wicked smile curved his lips—one that made her knees weak.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, then took her hand and led her toward the wagon. The firelight faded behind them.

After the lads and their antics walked away from the tent, Broderick lingered beside the vardo, his gaze fixed on the shadows.

The night was thick with laughter, wine, and longing— but none of it dulled the biting edge left by Davina’s earlier rejection.

Her voice had sliced through his charm like a fine rapier, cold and dismissive.

But he’d seen the truth in her eyes. Felt the heat simmering beneath her words. She’d wanted him.

He could still smell it on her.

A low growl vibrated in his throat. She was flame and steel, and he hadn’t yet decided whether he meant to tame her—or let her burn him alive.

Movement flickered in the dark.

A cloaked figure stepped from the gloom, her gait slow, calculated. The breeze shifted, carrying the unmistakable scent of rose oil, blood, and something uniquely hers. His muscles tensed, pulse quickening.

Davina.

Broderick’s arms folded as he leaned against the wagon, his smile slow and feral. “Changed yer mind about my offer, lass?”

She stopped just shy of his reach, the hood casting her face in shadow. “I’d like a palm reading.”

His chuckle was low and knowing. “A palm reading,” he echoed, voice dipping into something darker. “Aye, is that what we’re callin’ it these days?”

Her chin tilted, just enough to show defiance. “I’ve coin, if that’s what it takes.”

His grin widened, feral as a wolf’s. “Keep yer coin, mistress.” He stepped aside, sweeping the tent flap open. “Come inside. Let’s see what yer fate has to say.”

She hesitated.

He arched a brow, gaze glinting. “What’s the matter? Afraid of what I’ll see in yer future?”

She brushed past him, the edge of her cloak grazing his chest. He caught her scent again—heady, intoxicating—and closed the flap behind them.

Inside, the glow of oil lamps bathed the tent in amber, throwing shadows like whispers against the canvas walls. Davina stood rigid, hands hidden, cloak still wrapped around her like armor.

Broderick circled her slowly, every step full of quiet intent. “Ye needn’t be shy, Davina.” His voice dark with wicked promise. “I already know yer secrets.”

She edged back, her spine striking the central tent pole. Her breath hitched. “What are you doing?”

He stopped inches from her, his forearm braced against the post above her head. “What do ye think?” He purred, his breath brushing her cheek. “Isnae this why ye came?”

Her gloved hand shot up, pressing against his chest. “Is this what you do to every woman who asks for a palm reading?”

“Nay.” His grin widened. “Only auburn-haired goddesses seekin’ pleasure.”

Davina’s glare could have cut through stone, but it didn’t stop him from leaning closer, inhaling the faint floral scent beneath her cloak. And then it hit him—blood. Not the faint, tantalizing aroma always hidden beneath her skin, but stronger, fresher. His eyes narrowed.

Broderick reached up and yanked back her hood. The sight of her face made his chest tighten. Her left eye was swollen, purple and blue, and her bottom lip was split, the edges crusted with blood.

“Who did this to ye?” His voice deep and dangerous.

Davina turned her head, trying to pull the hood back up, but he caught her wrist. “It’s none of your concern.”

“The hell it isnae,” he growled. His grip tightened—not enough to hurt her, but enough to keep her from running off. “ Tell me.”

She yanked her arm free, her eyes blazing. “I didn’t come here to talk about that.”

“Then why did ye come here?” His voice softened but stayed biting. “Because if ye think ye can keep secrets from me, lass, ye’re mistaken.”

Davina glared at him, the angry swelling on her face punctuating the tension, her arms wrapped tight around herself.

Her gaze darted toward the table, the lantern light flickering, but she didn’t meet Broderick’s eyes.

She was stiff, guarded, and yet she lifted her chin defiantly, her lips pressed into a determined line.

“I wasn’t entirely truthful with you earlier,” she began. “When you met me on the road last night.”

Broderick said nothing, but his dark eyes narrowed, fixed as if he could pull the truth from her without saying a word. She shifted under his scrutiny.

“When we…met in Aberdeen, you already knew I was married,” she said as though forcing her words out. “To Ian.”

Broderick’s jaw tightened, but still, he didn’t speak.

“As you learned back then, he mistreated me.” Her tone was flat, matter of fact, as though it had been ground down by time.

“That night, when I came to you…” She faltered and glanced at him—just a flick—then looked down.

“I needed an escape. Just for one night. I’d never known what it was like to…

enjoy it. To feel something different. Something that wasn’t pain. ”