Page 101 of The Devil May Care

“No artistic rendering today, then.”

He straightens, thoughtful. “If you were Daemari, I could feed you the image.”

I blink. “Feed me?”

He gestures to his temple. “We can share memory or certain impressions. It’s easiest if we are bonded or blooded, but it can still work. Visual threads. It’s not always precise, but it’s efficient.”

“So, you’re reading my mind?” I should throw something at him, right? That’s a gross violation of my privacy, but I can’t bring myself to care. I blame the burn. “Quick, what tell me what I just thought.” I try to frown but can’t put any weight behind it.

“No, Kay. I’m not reading your mind,” he murmurs. “I can’t take what you don’t offer, and I can’t feed you without your permission.”

“Like mystical Bluetooth, got it.” I grin at the disgruntled look in his eyes. He’s trying to hide it, but it’s not going well.Come on Caz, smile. I’mokay. It’s fine. Probably. “Wait, but didn’t you once say…” He did once time, right?

Caz’s lips thin, as if he isn’t sure how to explain. Maybe he’s not sure I’ll believe him. “It is possible for someone powerful to search without notice. I did try, once, but the time you’re referring to…” he shrugs, it’s uncharacteristic of him to not have an answer. “It didn’t go looking. It’s like the memories circumvented intention. I’m not sure quite how it worked, but I assume it has to do with you being human.”

I watch him a beat longer, then say, “Trace it.”

His eyes snap to mine. “What?”

“Show me. With your fingers.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just looks at me—like he’s trying to figure out if I understand what I’m asking. Maybe I don’t. Maybe I do. But I’m too tired to care about what it means right now. I just want something to make this real. He hesitates.

“Kay—”

“It doesn’t burn anymore,” I say softly. “It’s just there. Like a sore muscle. An echo. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

Still, he hesitates. I pull at the hem of the tunic, lifting it slowly over my head. The air is cool on my skin, the covers pool in my bare lap, and I don’t miss the way his jaw tightens as I sit there in nothing but the firelight. He resolutely keeps his eyes on mine. I arch a brow.

“This yours?”

“The tunic?” he asks, voice a little rougher.

“Mm.”

“It is.”

I smile. “Thanks for sharing.”

“Don’t thank me,” he says immediately. “It was necessary.”

I snort, then glance down at myself and sigh. “I’m not really built for modesty,” I mutter, covering my chest with one arm. “Not unless I grow a third hand to hide these puppies. Let’s just ignore them, okay?”

His expression twitches—tight, but there’s something like amusement behind it. And I give him credit. His eyes don’t stray to my tits. Not even once. He has self-control to rival a saint staring down the mouth of hell.

“Show me.” I lie down, settling face-first on the bed with my cheek to the pillow. “Please.”

The mattress shifts under his weight. He moves with care—no rush, no sound beyond the faint rustle of fabric and the quiet exhale of his breath. The fire cracks once in the hearth behind him. I keep my eyes closed, cheek pressed to the cool pillow, the tension in my shoulders pulling tight and then easing. Then his fingers touch my back. I inhale sharply. It doesn’t hurt, but I feel his touch and the heat of mark. Just real. Present.

He starts low, at the curve of my spine, just above the small of my back. His fingers trace upward slowly, following lines I can’t see, only feel. Not as skin. Not even as pain. It’s like heat echoing down into bone, like someone tapping on an old bell. I don’t flinch. I don’t burn. But I shiver, and his fingers pause against my back.

“You’re not hurting me,” I murmur into the pillow.

He exhales, the sound close—tight, controlled. It reminds me of that kids’ game I used to play in elementary school. Drawing silly notes and pictures on someone’s back and having them guess the message. Maybe I should have remembered how bad I was at that game. His hand moves higher, fingertips grazing the ridges of the mark. I imagine the lines: curling, branching, winglike maybe. It pulses faintly beneath his touch—not pain, not pleasure, just something so intimate I can barely hold still beneath it.

“There’s symmetry across the shoulder blades,” he says quietly. “The lines taper down and out, like flame, but also… like branches. It’s not like any mark I’ve ever seen.”

“Is it pretty?” I ask, not sure why the question slips out. “The brand?”