Chapter 21 #3
“Yes, it is. You don’t need their permission or their validation. You bring them the treasure, and then you leave.” The finality in his tone leaves no room for argument. He means it.
It occurs to me that nothing may appease my family when I leave. I could buy them mattresses stuffed with the fluffy down of goslings or a manor whose balcony overlooks the Bay of Teeth. And even still, they might spurn my dreams. At least they’d be safe. At least they’d be wealthy.
“It will be the hardest on my sister,” I admit. “This is the first time we’ve ever been apart for more than a day.”
“Bonds between siblings can transcend even realms. If you stay honest with each other, you won’t lose her,” he says.
I wonder if he feels that way about his own sister. “What is Deitra like?” I ask him.
“Strange,” he says with a fond smile. “Level-headed, absolute in her decisions. Emotions rarely sway her.”
“Sounds like someone I know,” I muse, smirking at him even though he still watches the stars.
“Emotions do sway me.” He closes his eyes and sighs. “I need to stop letting it.”
I don’t understand what he means, so I return his gesture, rubbing my own thumb along his.
If I don’t imagine it, his shoulders relax.
“Deitra is different,” he continues. “She’s learned to assess any situation and solve it with logic alone. She had to, when precognition tends to blind its holders with paranoia.”
“That’s her Gift?” Not only is it an Elite power, but it’s incredibly rare. Much more useful than untethering.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “I can feel that. You don’t need to doubt your magic.”
“It’s not just that I doubt it,” I admit, tensing. Sometimes I forget that the bond goes both ways. What else has he felt from me?
Desmond watches me, waiting.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself to be honest with him, no matter how vulnerable it makes me.
“I’m afraid,” I tell him. “I beat a draugr wight by dumb luck. I almost lost my sister. I panicked when cornered by a fire-wielder and when Auri glamoured me, I couldn’t do a thing about it. What if I’m not cut out for this?”
He sits up and tucks a small white flower behind my ear. “Your fear may know your name, but so does your strength. And your strength has carried you through every battle that was meant to break you.”
My face warms at the gentleness of his touch, the dimpled smile as he pulls away. “Why bother to reassure me like this?” I ask him.
He lies back down. For a moment, he’s silent, one hand laced with mine and the other on his chest. His skyward gaze is soft and pensive, as if counting the stars. Quietly, he says, “Because I thought you’d understand.”
“Understand what?”
He swallows. “Me.”
As if drawn into a trance, we turn toward each other. We lie with our gazes locked for seconds that feel like an eternity, and my pulse flutters with an anticipatory thrill. For the first time since he drew back his hood, I don’t see him as fae.
I see him.
And he sees me, too.
I let go of his hand, and his brows furrow, but then I cup his cheek. My breath trembles as I sit up and lean over him.
He stares up at me, his beautiful hazel eyes full of wonder and longing.
His full lips part, and his lashes flutter.
Desmond, while brooding and harsh, is handsome in a lethal way that makes my heart pound.
Undone and unrestrained by his rigid mask, he’s gorgeous in a way that makes me yearn to commit every second to memory.
“Cynthia,” he whispers.
I lean down until I’m so close that a tilt of his chin would let me feel his decadent lips with my own. My chest tightens as I feel his warmth, his trembling breaths. His hands find my face, caressing me before burying into my hair.
“No,” he says, only the soft rumble of his throat assuring me I didn’t imagine it.
My heart wrenches like he’s squeezed it in his fist. “No?” I echo, sitting up. I let go of him. “I thought you. . .”
Desmond swallows. Guilt shadows his gaze. “I won’t let emotion compromise the mission.”
I’m too stunned to find words, embarrassment quickening my pulse to a painful throb. All I can manage is a feeble nod as I back away from him. Gods, how could I be so stupid? Of course he doesn’t want me in the same way I want him.
“And you’re not sober,” he adds, a hollowness in his tone as if reminding himself just as much as me. “You would’ve regretted it in the morning.”
I want to tell him that he can’t decide what I’ll regret, but what if he’s right? What if my nervousness, the palpable tension, my desire to feel his body beneath mine—what if they’re from the berries?
“You’re right,” I choke out. “It was just the jam.”
He stills for several heartbeats, and despite the rigid impassiveness on his face, I feel a pulse of sorrow, so strong it makes my breath catch. Then he stands. “Let’s head back.”
He offers me his hand, but I rise on my own. I brush the grass off my pants as he watches me, his jaw clenched and shoulders stiff.
“We should forget about tonight,” I tell him, even though I still want more of it. More of his hands running through my hair, more of his touch.
Desmond only nods.
As we make our way down the hill, it strikes me with painful acuity how I wished we could’ve stargazed until dawn.