Chapter 56
Chapter Fifty-Six
Desmond
Desmond’s ass was losing feeling from the cold, hard rock he’d perched on. Though, he had to admit, his head was a little clearer out here.
“What are you thinking about?” Myrella asked.
Desmond grunted, continuing to draw in the dirt with a branch he’d found near the path. The horses stood at the edge of the tree line where the trunks were far enough apart for them to graze on fallen fruit.
Myrella crouched next to him. “That wasn’t very convincing.”
He scowled at her, but she laughed.
“You know nothing is happening between Lola and her guard.”
“Why would that bother me?” Desmond insisted, the branch creaking in his hand as he sketched flowers in the dirt, the tip of the stick digging deeper.
“It’s okay if it does, Desmond.” Her voice was so sincere, he looked up, finding those same, emotion-welling eyes that always got him to share things he’d rather not.
“It doesn’t bother me. It can’t.”
“Why not?” Myrella challenged. Dammit, she was a persistent little thing.
“Because she and I aren’t anything. We never have been.” He gritted his teeth. “The rules have always been clear.”
“Why, though?”
“It was only ever one night when she was home.”
Myrella hummed. “But you’re both here now.”
“So?”
“So, the situation has changed. Maybe the rules should, too.”
“They can’t. We’re friends, and she’s Roremar’s little sister.”
Myrella’s voice broke as she said, “Roremar has lost a lot recently. Seems to me it would be better to have people he loves be happy than enforce their suffering.”
Desmond wasn’t certain about that, though.
He knew Roremar wanted his happiness, but protecting his family was his biggest priority.
Whatever had brewed between him and Lola over the years had already clearly risked her happiness.
He saw her expression outside the manor the other night.
The internal debate, the pain, the anger when he kept showing up.
To Roremar, Desmond causing any of that would interfere with his sole goal of protecting his family.
Frustration roared through him, and he jammed the sharp edge of the branch into the dirt, but instead of it sinking into the soft earth, it snapped.
Myrella straightened. “That was odd.”
“It was.”
Slipping off the rock, Desmond dug into the earth. About an inch beneath the surface, his fingers met cool rock. He scooped away the loose-packed dirt on top, exposing shining black stone, an aurora sheen catching the moonlight.
A very familiar aurora.
“This looks a lot like what I saw at the Quarry Lock,” Desmond whispered, already shoveling away more dirt. And like at the Quarry Lock, his head swam. Not as badly this time—it could have been the memory—but his vision wavered slightly.
“Is that the same as the object Falliare bought at the sanctuary?” Myrella asked.
“I think it might be,” Desmond said. “And Roremar’s ring.”
He hadn’t voiced that theory to anyone—he wasn’t certain enough, and they’d been too focused on their vineyard plan, then the falls—but he’d been turning it over in his head since he saw the source.
Whatever they were mining at the Quarry Lock was the same thing Falliare was hunting for, the same substance coating Roremar’s ring from his father.
And now, it was out near Wisteria Falls?
Desmond looked back to the rock at his feet, the thick vein stretching toward the trees. About two feet in, the dark stone surfaced, wrapping through the earth in the direction of the waterfalls.
“Tie up the horses, little dreamer,” Desmond said.
And he followed it.