Page 6 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)

S erafina

It’s Day Seven of Andrew Stone’s stay at the Harbor’s Edge and a) I’m slightly mortified that I’m actually keeping count, and b) I can’t believe that with each day that inches closer to his departure, something deep inside me tightens.

Day One was the morning he caught me in the lobby and the day I discovered I have a serious thing for men with dark eyes and muscular arms.

Day Two, he was gone at his convention or whatever (I still haven’t managed to wrest out of him exactly what he does or why he’s here.)

Day Three was the evening he came to the bar and the first time I experienced being made to feel hot and prickly by another human being just for choosing a drink .

Day Four, he bought me coffee and insisted I take a minute to actually drink it.

Day Five, he was nowhere to be seen but from somewhere in the world he arranged for another hazelnut latte to be delivered to my desk.

Day Six, he spent two hours in the restaurant talking on several different cell phones and occasionally glancing sideways at me.

At one point, midway through a conversation, he gestured pointedly at the coffee machine and only removed his intense stare once I’d made myself a latte and sipped it right in front of him.

I’m beginning to feel almost… special, somehow? He isn’t ordering coffee for anyone else. In fact, I haven’t really seen him look at anyone else. The thought makes everything below my waist flutter.

I’ve found myself spending a little longer in the shower each morning, curling my hair, applying a little lip gloss, choosing blouses that hug my breasts a little tighter. But it doesn’t mean anything. I know deep down a man like Andrew Stone would never be interested in someone like me.

He’s like a Greek God. Impossibly tall, thickly built, with muscles that swell beneath his crisp white shirts. His jawline is cut to perfection, his eyes deep set and cavernous. He wears stubble like designer cologne—tasteful, understated, wildly magnetic.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since he checked into the hotel.

And it’s not just the mystery he surrounds himself with that lures me in—it’s his thoughtfulness and his questioning.

Unlike all our other male guests who only want to talk to my breasts, Andrew asks me questions and actually listens to the answers.

He asks me my opinion and genuinely wants to hear it.

He hasn’t dismissed my fondness for—okay, obsession with—astrology.

Instead, he wants me to share it with him.

Honestly? I couldn’t have dreamed up a man like him. I hardly know Andrew Stone but he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever met, and one of the most generous. I go to bed each night floating on air just because the Greek God from the Meadow Lane Suite bought me another coffee.

This morning, I’m so nervous I can’t stop my hands from shaking. It’s Day Seven—the day I share Andrew Stone’s birth chart with him.

I sit in the conservatory, just as I said I would, and try to stop my knees from knocking together as I wait.

Since the day he passed me his date of birth, I’ve spent nearly every evening calculating, dissecting, analyzing, until it’s become quite possible I know the man better than he knows himself.

I’ve positioned myself at the far window so that I might see him coming and have at least a moment to steady my breathing. I’ve never been this affected by a man before. My body simply doesn’t know how to handle it. For a second I entertain the idea of a stiff drink but then dismiss it as madness.

He’s just a man , Sera. A human man. And also, it’s ten a.m.

My heart seems to pound harder before his figure even comes into view, as though the energy in the air has shifted. He’s wearing dark colors again, and even at a distance, the blue in his eyes is picked out against the fabric. By the time he’s standing at my table, I’m almost hyperventilating.

I swallow repeatedly as he pulls out a chair and manages to lower his thick thighs onto it gracefully. His eyes spear me before they look away and magically capture the attention of Rory, one of the waiters.

“Mr. Stone. Your usual, sir?”

Andrew nods once, then pans his gaze to me. “She’ll have a hazelnut latte,” he says to Rory, not shifting his focus from my rapidly reddening face.

With the drinks now ordered, Andrew rolls up his shirt sleeves and rests his forearms on the table. My gaze is drawn to the ink lining both arms. My collarbone grows unbearably hot and I have to swallow again.

“ Lord ,” I groan, inwardly. “ Why would you do this to me?”

My lip suddenly stings and I realize I’ve been biting it.

I clear my aching throat, push the birth chart to the center of the table and begin.

“Thank you for asking me to do this,” I smile, timidly. “I love doing birth charts for people, especially when they’re as interesting as yours is, Mr. Stone.”

“Andrew,” he says, his voice low and firm.

Nerves hammer against my chest. “I’m s-sorry,” I stutter. “Andrew. ”

I clear my throat again. I’ve interpreted hundreds of charts before. I shouldn’t be this nervous.

“Look here.” I point to some of the symbols I’ve highlighted.

“You’ve got a Capricorn Sun, Scorpio Moon, and Aries Rising.

These are very strong signs. Two of them are cardinal—they’re the alphas of the zodiac, the signs that begin each season.

You want to be first in everything—the best. And you often are.

The combination of these signs though… I wouldn’t describe it as a ‘light’ energy.

” I try not to wince at the word. “It’s more… dense .”

He shifts in his seat and leans further forward until his breaths warm my hands. Trying to ignore the heat as it creeps up my neck, I continue.

“Your Moon is intriguing. Scorpio Moons are private and protective. They don’t really like to be seen. They tend to watch from the shadows and carefully plan their moves.” I watch his reaction as I speak. “You may not say a lot but you remember everything.”

His forehead softens with interest.

“Your Ascendant is your outer personality—how you come across to people. Yours is in Aries, which is the sign of a leader—someone who takes charge and makes decisions. It’s a fire sign.

People with this placing are often looked up to and respected…

” I clear my throat, again . “Some might even say, ‘feared.’”

I peek up at him through my lashes and catch him staring at me intensely.

Taking a deep breath, I continue. “Your Moon is in water though. That’s good.

It calms and quiets any… in tensity. It actually makes you more formidable.

You have all this fire going on which could be reckless, but having water so prominent in your chart will temper it.

For some people, this could make them… lethal. ”

He doesn’t seem at all surprised by my summary, so I move my finger to another symbol among a crisscross of lines and aspects.

“Your chart ruler is Mars in the eighth house. That’s the house of power, control, even other people’s money.

It can be…” I’m not sure how to put this without sounding overly dramatic. “…pretty intense.”

I look up just in time to see a small quirk in one corner of his mouth. Then it’s gone just as quickly.

“Honestly, it’s a placement I see in people who’ve become adept at reading danger because, whether they intend to or not, they seem to attract it.”

I take a deep breath and rock back on my chair.

The need for oxygen creeps into the space between us.

Part of me hopes I’ve misinterpreted some of his chart because I don’t like the thought of this man, who has so far only shown kindness and interest in me, having to be ever-watchful for danger.

Then I remember that no chart—least of all his—is quite so black and white.

I continue. “There’s a duality to your chart actually, almost like you’ve lived two lives. There’s something about you that doesn’t align with how you present yourself. Not in a deceptive way, but in a self-protective way. Like you’ve had to compartmentalize who you are. ”

I look up and his eyes are narrowed in focus, and I get the uncomfortable feeling I’ve hit a nerve.

“There’s a transit here that can bring people into your life who transform you. It’s about love and obsession, endings, beginnings. If you don’t like surprises, you should stay on your guard. It will pay you to look closely at the people around you—your family, colleagues, friends… lovers.”

I blush heinously at that last word, so the rest of my interpretation comes out a little rushed.

“If I had to summarize your chart, I’d say you’re not interested in your aspects out of mere curiosity.

You’re interested because you have a feeling something’s about to change.

You might know what it is, you might not, But either way, your chart tells me you have everything you need to find the truth, and to navigate it with the power and authority your Ascendant has bestowed on you. ”

He lifts the chart and inspects it closely while I focus on returning my breathing to a semi-normal tempo. I mentioned everything I thought I should and, interestingly, none of what I explained seemed to faze him.

But there was something I left out. Andrew Stone’s birth chart is dark .

It points to a past that not many people could survive, and those who do are changed forever by it.

It’s the kind of chart I’d normally associate with shadowy brilliance, like that of a president…

or a serial killer . I shake my head and try not to think of the latter .

Something else I don’t mention is the fact I compared it with my own birth chart. It’s the kind of thing I’d have done in high school, matching my first name with a guy’s last name to ‘try it on’ and see how it might feel to be married to them.

What I saw wasn’t a cute doodle punctuated with a curly love heart in pink ink.

What I saw was chaos. If I were ever to be in a relationship with Andrew—a girl can dream, right?

—we’d either be inseparable at a soul level or the death of each other.

Either his darkness will snuff out my light, or my light will eclipse his shadows.

Or, perhaps least likely, our natures combined could strengthen our individual power, making us unstoppable .

That last thought whips away my breath and I sip my latte to cover up my nerves.

I have to remind myself that he’s a hotel guest anyway. It is delusional to imagine I could ever be more to Andrew than a chubby little hotel host with an underdeveloped crush and an overblown obsession with the solar system.

His cell phone rings, making me jump. He answers with one word.

“Federico.”

That name rings a bell. I wrack my brain trying to remember where I’ve heard it before—why it’s so familiar—when he snaps his cell shut, folds the sheet of paper and slides it into his jacket.

He sips his water, eyeing me carefully over the rim of my glass, then sets it down and licks his lips .

“Thank you, Sera,” he says, and those three words in this moment mean more than he’ll ever know. Not only is he grateful for what I’ve done but he respects it—he appreciates it. He hasn’t just dismissed it as a bunch of fluff like most people do.

I stand up and smooth my hands down my uniform. “You’re welcome,” I say in a high pitched voice. I glance at the clock on the wall. “I’m sorry, I need to go. I have to try on a bridesmaid dress for my sister’s wedding. She’s about to FaceTime me so she can see it.”

His lips curve into a lazy smile that I have to forcefully drag my eyes away from.

“Anyway, take it away, have a look over it and let me know if you have any questions.”

He nods slowly and I turn to walk away, his gaze heating and swelling my curves with every unsteady step.