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CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

T he autumn afternoon outside Leonard’s cottage was as crisp and bright as Xenia’s mood.

She and Cael had been at the house for several days awaiting word from Tristan through the cuff. Nothing yet, though Xenia was manifesting positive outcomes as she traipsed through the wind-swept fields picking wildflowers.

Cass and Tristan would succeed. Cael would get the dragon and burn down those wards.

Any anxiety she might have felt over the future had difficultly taking hold in her endorphin-flooded brain. Cael had made her come so many times in the past forty-eight hours she’d lost count. He was insatiable . Making up for lost time.

Not that she was complaining.

She smiled at the memory of this morning’s session: Cael bending her over the kitchen counter, tossing her white cotton skirt up over her ass and taking her hard and fast from behind, the warbling birdsong mingling with her pleasure-soaked cries.

These hills were so remote, so peaceful. A part of her wished they could stay here forever. Forget about the dragon and the rebels and their cause.

But that would require a level of selfishness Xenia wasn’t capable of. At least, not for long.

She bent to pick a flower with a black center and feathery orange-yellow petals, then glanced toward the empty cottage.

Cael had taken the cuff and portaled down to the village to meet Leonard for lunch and get a report on the dragon. And to apologize for the table before purchasing the supplies to build a new one.

Xenia had spent the morning with a book in her lap and a steaming cup of tea in her hand. Leonard didn’t have much in his cottage, but he did have a surprisingly robust collection of historical romances. She preferred to believe the books belonged to Leonard himself and not to whomever had left the few simple dresses she’d found in his closet.

She’d blushed and giggled her way through the spectacularly filthy The Windrider General’s Prize , then decided to get some fresh air. She’d tucked the flute—which Cael had left in her care—into her dress, then plucked up a basket and strode out into the meadows.

She was examining a white spray of baby’s breath when a familiar scent tickled her nose.

Something soft and… bitter .

Xenia turned into the wind, trying to locate the source. Her gaze caught on a patch of tiny red blooms resting upon a sea of deep green leaves.

Dienswort. Named after Dienses the Jester, the human God of Merriment. Xenia had seen plenty of pictures, but had never actually encountered the plant.

She pinched a blossom off its stem, then brought it to her nose. It was most definitely the note she’d scented in Elodie’s vials.

What was dienswort used for? Knowledge tickled the back of her brain but wouldn’t materialize.

In the distance, the cottage door banged shut and she dropped the flower as a smile burst across her face. She rushed up the hill to welcome Cael home, her blood thrumming.

Sweet Amatu, she hadn’t realized it was possible to want someone this much. And so frequently. A bottomless well of need that could never be filled no matter how many times she’d had him.

She whipped open the door. “What are you doing back so early, I?—”

The greeting died in her throat, and her basket of wildflowers fell to floor.

Arran Zephyrus’s dark gray eyes roved over the scattered stems before they landed on Xenia with the force of a runaway boulder. He flared his wings, stalked toward her, and she could do nothing . Couldn’t run, couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe .

“I did wonder what could have possibly inspired my son to stray from my plans.” Arran’s voice was as cold and hard as frost-bitten steel.

Arran whispered something into his palm, then sent the message gusting through the open window.

He grabbed her arm, his wicked smile even more terrifying than his typical stone-faced grimace.

“Help me get him back on track, won’t you, little human?”

Cael was certain that every inhabitant of the remote mountain village had descended upon The Mottled Hog for lunch.

The crowd was jovial, the food delicious, and the ale refreshing. For one silly, selfish moment, Cael thought he might just stay in this tiny town of farmers and artisans. It was a rare refuge, unspoiled by the Empire. A place where he could remain spectacularly anonymous.

He could picture it so clearly: taking a job as a carpenter or fieldworker, wearing himself out with honest work, returning to the cottage every night to rejuvenate himself in Xenia’s nourishing embrace. Maybe with a little half-breed or two running around his feet.

A simple life where his lost wing wouldn’t matter. Where he’d have the space to heal.

A life he’d never wanted before he’d met her.

He smiled into his ale.

“What are you thinking about?” Leonard smirked, digging a fork into his meat pie and taking a large bite, crumbs flaking into his white beard. “Making good use of my cottage, are you?”

Cael huffed out a laugh, but didn’t take the bait. He lowered his voice, though the restaurant was so loud it wouldn’t have mattered. He could barely even hear Leonard across the table. And no one was paying them a lick of attention. Spectacular anonymity, indeed.

“How is the dragon doing? I still haven’t heard from Tristan, but it could be any minute now. I’ll send word as soon as I have it.”

“She’s ready,” Leonard confirmed. “Been keeping her well fed. Making sure her fire is all fueled up.”

Cael dipped his head in gratitude. “I can’t thank you enough, Leonard. When this is all over?—”

Leonard waved him off. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be gone as soon as I see her flying toward Diachre. My niece lives over in Cernodas with her mate and children. They’ve been begging me to move closer. And I hear that territory is a pretty safe place for misfit rebels.”

“Good,” was all Cael said before polishing off his own meat pie and downing the rest of his ale. He tossed a dracha on the table, but Leonard chucked it back at him.

“Your money’s no good here. Not after everything you’ve done for her. I’d never be able to repay you. Not even in three lifetimes.”

You might not say that after what Xenia and I did to your table , Cael thought, chuckling. Aching to return to the cottage and drown himself in her again. Though he did have one more stop to make.

He waved goodbye to Leonard as he pushed through the crowded foyer and into the sun-drenched street. He turned down the main avenue toward the hardware store on the corner.

Cael was two blocks away from the small shop when the cuff began to glow and Tristan’s voice floated into his mind.

—ame is Si—ear me? Ca—ound it’s n ? —

“What?” Cael said, stopping in his tracks. “Tristan? I can’t hear you. Say it again.”

—nys. Her name is Sig ? —

“Fuck,” Cael mumbled, holding the cuff up to his ear. Like that would make a lick of difference. “What did you say? Her name is Nys?”

—o. Sign—on’s name is Sign ? —

“Signys?”

—es! That’s ? —

The cuff went dead.

But Cael’s insides were glowing. He’d heard the excitement in Tristan’s voice when Cael had guessed correctly.

He turned away from the hardware store, sending a mental apology to Leonard for the now permanently broken table, his mind swirling with plans. As soon as he got back to the cottage to tell Xenia the good news and get the flute, he’d?—

Arran’s windwhisper stopped him cold and froze the blood in his veins.

I’ve got your pretty pet, boy. And if you do not come back to Stoneridge this instant to fulfill your duty to this family, I will end her. Time’s ticking.

The village dissolved as fury blinded him, fiercer than anything Cael had felt in his nearly two centuries-long life.

Villagers flowed around him, throwing concerned, sidelong glances as his fists clenched and his chest heaved.

Cael didn’t give a flying fuck who was watching as he lifted the silver cuff and tapped the opal.

And portaled straight to Stoneridge.