Turning Point
Chapter thirteen
Mara watched Ethan as he peered at a brilliant cluster of blossoms, sketching and making notes as he worked.
He was not a skilled artist, but now that she’d watched him work for many days, she had come to understand that he was not attempting to create art, but to record what he saw in a shorthand all his own.
He’d scribble notes all around his sketches, measurements and observations, and sometimes phrases that seemed entirely unrelated.
What down boy, know your place, and remember Actaeon had to do with botany, she had no idea, but they must have some meaning to him. Perhaps Actaeon was the name of another scientist, or one of those ancient words scientists liked to throw around to pretend they knew answers about something.
Ethan was obsessed with answers. It was vastly irritating, how he’d be sitting there sketching and suddenly pop out yet another question about the fae world, most of them unrelated to whatever he was supposed to be studying.
She’d deflected or ignored the more personal questions, of course, but now that they were allies, of a sort, she saw little harm in telling him how fae came from and called upon the elements, the ways they now interacted with the human world.
She hadn’t had many answers, to be truthful. How did she pass through the sand? She didn’t know. She just did it. How did she make flowers bloom? She asked them to, fed them bits of herself in a way that she couldn’t possibly explain. Finally, she’d huffed in exasperation.
“Do you know how you breathe, or how you sense pain?” In a burst of emotion, she’d taken his hand. “Do you think how to react to a touch, how to shiver or to—”
He’d snatched his hand away. “I get your point.”
And there, Mara had been caught in her own trap, trembling, her thoughts muddy with desire and more. Her own body responding to his in ways beyond explanation.
She did not like him at all.
And yet, last night, she’d shown him her wings.
It had been all innocent, on his part. She’d been assisting him back to his campground—he could limp, but still needed support, so she’d been intent on supporting his warm, musky body. Intent on not thinking too hard about the warmth or the muskiness or the pressure of his side against her.
Out of nowhere, he’d started to laugh and halted in his tracks.
She had halted as well, still tucked under his arm. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Just remembering.”
He’d been looking off to the side, and she’d turned to trace his gaze. It was the outskirts of her garden, but nothing much different than the place they’d just left. “What is there to remember?”
“This is where we first met.” His voice had been low. “You were sleeping right there, and I thought…” He’d cleared his throat. “Well. Never mind what I thought.”
Mara had remembered then, all in a flash. Sun sparkling through water and shining in his eyes, the careful expression on his face. The bulk of his body, so close to her, when she’d thought she was safe.
But she’d been safe then, too. She hadn’t known it, but now she did. He had faced her down, challenged her, but not once had he threatened her with harm.
“I remember,” she’d said shortly.
“I thought I’d hallucinated you.” The arm over her shoulder had withdrawn, and she’d felt the warmth of his hand as he ghosted it over her back. “Though I guess at least some of it was a mirage. I swear you looked like you had wings.”
She should have let him continue to believe that it had been an illusion, but instead, she’d replied, “I do.”
He’d scoffed, but his hand had landed on her back. Gentle, as if he expected her to run away again. “No wings here.”
Mara could have argued with him, but instead she’d taken a step away, turned, and set her wings free.
The rush of air over their surface had been cool and refreshing.
She’d had them tucked away too long, since the day he’d seen them, since she’d flared them at Ethan in rage. She was not certain why.
“Holy—” His eyes had gone wide, and he’d started to lose his balance, hopping on his good foot.
She’d sent a wave of sand to support him, lowering him to the ground, where he’d sat and stared at her.
“Those are wings.”
“Yes.”
“They’re…beautiful.”
The look in his eyes had made her shiver. She’d wanted to ask him to say more, but something had twinged at the thought. “Yes,” she’d replied instead, turning in a slow circle. Showing off, just a little. It was heady, being admired so frankly.
“Wow.” He’d gulped loudly. “Can you fly?”
“If I wish to.” She’d vibrated them slightly—not enough to take flight.
They’d felt tight from their confinement in faerie.
“The earth in me does not like me to go far, nor the wood, but they do function. In desperate need, I could fly above the treetops, but I prefer to glide. It can be convenient, when I wish to be swift.”
His eyes had been burning into her, and she was nearly overcome by the urge to invite him to touch them. They were soft and velvety, she knew, soft and strong, and Ethan’s hands would be rough and warm on their sensitive membranes and she wanted—
She’d swirled them away again. “The sun is setting.” She’d considered holding her hand out to help Ethan up, but let the sand shove him to his feet instead. She did not yet like him enough for that.
Though she had taken her place at his side to help him walk the rest of the way to his tent, where she’d efficiently ensured he was ready for the night, and then released her wings to fly up to her bower at the hill’s crest.
Just because she could.
She’d felt his eyes on her the whole time—perhaps given an extra flick to her wings because of it.
In the shelter of her bower, she’d stroked her own hands up the expanding vanes of her wings, eyes closed, imagining hands on them, strong and confident. Ethan’s hands. It was a bitter thing to acknowledge, even now, but she was tired of lying to herself.
She wanted Ethan desperately, craved the hunger in his eyes and the morsels of closeness she rationed out to herself throughout each day.
Which was why she needed to help him. She needed to give him what he wanted so that she could rid herself of him before she gave in and begged for what she wanted.
Because she didn’t want it. Not with her heart or her head.
Only her traitorous body thrummed at his nearness with desire.
Ofelia would tell her to give in.
Ofelia was probably right.
Ofelia was, thankfully, not around to point out the fact that she was right.
A rustle of fabric brought her attention back to the present. Ethan had paused his sketching to rummage in his backpack. When he caught her watching, he winked at her.
“You know, you don’t need to stay,” he said. He took a deep swig from his canteen. “You told me where I was allowed to go, and I promised I wouldn’t go farther.”
“I cannot trust you,” she lied, giving a sniff.
“Mmm.” He drank more, but his eyes were still on her. “I’m almost done here. I’ll get some samples and move on.” He regarded the flower he’d been sketching with a judicious eye. “It might help if you’d answer a few questions. Not personal ones,” he hastened to add.
“I suppose.”
He reached out and touched the blossom, stroking its petals from base to edge.
Mara was not prepared. She gasped, and he turned sharply to look at her.
“Wait,” he said. “You can feel this?” He touched the flower again, tentatively.
Mara straightened her spine. “It is mine,” she said evenly. “We are connected.”
He withdrew his hand suddenly. “Wait. So when I take samples, does it… Does it hurt you?”
“If I say it does, will you leave now?”
“Would it be true?”
“No,” she admitted grudgingly. “A flower falling is natural. It does not bring pain, to the plant or to myself. Even when you take a piece of the flesh, I do not feel it.” She shrugged.
“Plants are not so delicate, for the most part. They are accustomed to a certain amount of damage, and they grow despite it.”
“Oh, thank god.” He leaned back on his hands. His T-shirt was damp with sweat under his overshirt, clinging to his body. “I had this awful vision, that you were all merged and hive-mindy.”
“We are not as the bees,” Mara said. “The plants are themselves, and have not the mind to care about such things.”
“But you can feel them. What does it feel like?”
“It is— I cannot explain.” She abruptly—unwisely—reached out and took his nearest hand. “It is like this.” She traced a delicate pattern into his palm. It was foolish. She knew it. But she had an excuse to feel his skin against hers, and she was not strong enough to resist it.
He shifted on the sand. Was he aroused? Or just uncomfortable with being touched?
Whatever it was, he did not draw away.
“Do you…feel it on your hand?”
“Ah, no. It is more…” She daringly ran her finger up his wrist, then reached over and touched his cheek, his throat, fleeting touches too fast to be called a caress.
“It is different places. We are not the same, the flower and I. It does not translate exactly.” She frowned. “I have not thought about it much.”
He gusted out a breath. “Well, now I feel like a creeper.”
“It is all right,” Mara said, withdrawing her hands to her lap. “It is simply what happens. I do not mind.”
Ethan turned to her, and something passed between them. A stillness like the desert as a storm approached. “You know this is a terrible temptation,” he said in a low voice.
She caught her breath, unable to look away. “It is?”
“You can’t just drop a puzzle like that in front of a scientist. Now I want to run an experiment just to find out how it works.”
Mara raised her eyebrows in challenge. “You do not believe me?”
“I believe you,” he said. “But I want to know more.” He hesitated, then raised his hand. “May I?”
She should say no. “You may.”
Ethan reached out and poked the nearest petal, right in the center. “Okay. Where did you feel that?”
“This is foolish.” Even so, Mara stretched her awareness into the flower.
“Indulge me.” He waited for Mara’s nod, then poked again.