Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
AERO
The sea cliffs rose north of Haven Shores, where the coastline broke into dramatic formations of stone and grass and windswept emptiness. Aero had studied maps of the area, had identified the overlook as the optimal observation point, but nothing had prepared him for the reality of it.
The cliff’s highest point was a flat expanse of grass protected from the worst winds by a natural rock formation.
The Pacific spread below them, vast and gray-green, waves crashing against the rocks in endless rhythm.
To the west, the storm system built on the horizon—towering clouds lit gold and amber by the setting sun, their dark underbellies promising violence to come.
It was beautiful. Objectively, measurably beautiful.
But Aero kept watching Cassia instead.
She’d kicked off her boots the moment they spread the blanket, tucking her legs beneath her as she faced the ocean.
The wind had won its war with her braid—dark curls escaped everywhere, whipping around her face, tangling in the evening light.
Her eyes had gone distant, unfocused, reading something only she could perceive.
“I can feel it,” she murmured. “The pressure building. The energy coiling.” Her hands moved unconsciously, fingers spreading as if reaching for something invisible. “It’s going to be massive. Category three at least, maybe four.”
“The meteorological data suggests category two.”
“The meteorological data is wrong.” She glanced at him, a flash of challenge in her expression. “It always is with storms like this. The instruments can’t measure what’s actually happening in the atmosphere. They can only approximate.”
“And you can measure it?”
“I feel it. Same difference.” She turned back to the horizon, her jaw tightening. “My grandmother could read storms from fifty miles away. My mother could coax lightning from clear skies. Me? I can’t even look at a cloud formation without accidentally creating one.”
The bitterness in her voice caught him off guard. He’d assessed her abilities as exceptional—perhaps the most powerful weather witch he’d encountered in centuries of research. He hadn’t considered that she might experience that power as a burden rather than a gift.
“You’re remarkably skilled,” he offered. The words felt inadequate. Clumsy.
“I’m remarkably dangerous.” She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
“Involuntary magical discharge during stress response is common among practitioners with—”
“Don’t.” She cut him off, sharp. “Don’t analyze it. Don’t make it a data point in your research. I know what I did. I know what I am.”
Aero fell silent. His instinct was to retreat into observation, to maintain the clinical distance that had kept him safe for centuries. But something about the way she’d curled in on herself—the defeat in her posture, the fear beneath her anger—made that feel wrong.
“I’m not trying to rationalize it,” he said finally. “I’m trying to understand.”
“Why?”
“Because—” He stopped. Started again. “Because you’re in pain, and I find that I don’t like it.”
She turned to look at him. Really look, searching his face for something he wasn’t sure he could give her.
“You don’t like it,” she repeated slowly.
“No.” The admission felt like stripping away armor. Vulnerable and unprotected. “I don’t.”
She held his gaze for a long moment. Then something in her expression softened, the defensive walls lowering just slightly.
“You hate this,” she said. Not a question. An assumption. “Being here. With me. Making conversation instead of collecting data.”
“No.”
She blinked. “No?”
“I don’t hate it.” The words felt foreign in his mouth. Admissions he hadn’t made in so long that the muscle memory had atrophied. “I don’t understand it. That’s different.”
“What don’t you understand?”
You. This. The way my entire existence has reorganized itself around your presence.
“You,” he said. “This. The way my—” He stopped, the truth catching in his throat.
“The way your what?”
His dragon surged, demanding honesty. He couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“My research,” he lied. “The data doesn’t make sense. Haven Shores should follow the same patterns as every other community I’ve studied, but it doesn’t. The anomalies are—” He gestured vaguely. “Frustrating.”
She knew he was lying. He could see it in the slight tilt of her head, the way her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. But she didn’t push. Just turned back to the storm building on the horizon, giving him space to breathe.
Something in his chest unknotted. Just slightly. Just enough.