57. AT A LOSS
I left the celebration earlier than the others.
The guest house was quiet, secluded from the music and revelry that would last long into the night.
It was just the solitude I needed to sit and sort through my thoughts.
I slumped onto the settee and stared ahead at the bookshelves.
The fire crackled nearby, providing ambient noise that did nothing to help calm my mind.
Something had come over me earlier. Something that I could not explain.
That strange feeling in my chest wouldn’t go away.
It felt like the drums were still vibrating through the air, echoing behind my ribs, tugging at my heartstrings.
I flexed my hands in frustration, not entirely sure what the mysterious sensation was or how to get past it.
Nivelle had something to do with it, that much I was sure of.
Normally, when I was feeling troubled, I’d port to the temple ruins atop the mountains and work through my issues with my fists and my weapons.
But I hadn’t brought anything but my dagger with me, and I didn’t want to set off any of my uncle’s wards, which he liked to keep in various places throughout the highlands.
The guesthouse was the best place for me.
I wasn’t myself, and that was made even more apparent by the fact that three casks of ale sat behind me on the table, refilled to the brim—if I knew Vanir—and yet, I had no urge to pour myself a drink.
Alcohol wouldn’t help how I felt. And when the sensation of carelessness faded, and the thoughts floated to the surface, I’d be worse off for having tried to drown them with it.
Guess that meant I was wearing a dress to Lumeri.
Remic would be thrilled.
But even that thought didn’t seem to bother me as much as Nivelle calling me arrogant.
My fingers drummed against my thighs.
What the hell was I doing wrong? And why did I care so much in the first place?
She was a witch from Neveshir. She didn’t belong here, and she certainly wouldn’t stay after all this was over.
Sure, the witches would settle in the mountains, but there was no guarantee Nivelle would choose to remain there with them.
The isolation of the isles, with her gloomy cottage and the eerie blue cats, seemed the more likely choice for her.
Something clattered behind me, and I leapt from the couch, dagger in hand, ready to sever someone’s limb from their body, only to find Nivelle and Auren.
They stumbled into existence, arms intertwined, nearly knocking over the table full of ale as they found their footing.
Auren was glassy-eyed and giggling, and Nivelle was grinning, catching her breath like she’d just finished dancing.
Next to them, Niall, Silas, and Remic appeared, in much the same state.
Niall supported both Dionachs by their arms, fighting to keep them and himself upright.
Gods, how long had I been here stewing?
Apparently long enough for everyone to get good and drunk.
Remic snapped his wings outward to steady himself as he stepped away. Silas, however, could barely stand on his own. His wings flailed as Niall used both hands to keep him upright.
“Easy does it,” Niall said, laughing. Then he turned to me and nodded toward the dagger in my hand. “Are you going to bloodlet us so we can sober up?”
I quickly lowered the weapon and relaxed. “Glad to see you all had a great time.”
“Did we win?” Silas slurred, looking at Remic for an answer.
Remic grinned when he didn’t see a drink in my hand or on the table. “Looks like it.”
“You and your bets,” Niall said. “Do I even want to know what this one entailed?”
“He has to wear a dress to Lumeri,” Remic said, snickering.
“Ahh, but I didn’t specify which Lumeri,” I pointed out.
Auren burst into laughter. “Oh I can’t wait to see that!”
“HA HA,” I mocked.
Beside her, Nivelle leaned against the table, watching me like a hawk.
Her hair was a bit mussed, and her cheeks were red, but she seemed more at ease than before.
Whatever had occurred while I was gone, she looked like she’d enjoyed herself.
The sight immediately had me wishing I would have stayed to witness it.
Auren quickly shifted her focus to her mate, snagging him by the arm and tugging him to their bedchamber. “Make good choices,” she called back over her shoulder to the rest of us as the two of them disappeared behind the door.
“The only choice I’m making is sleep,” Remic said. “See you all in the morning.” His door closed, and silence fell over the room.
Silas swayed then took a wobbly step forward, catching himself on the back of the settee. “Sleep sounds really good right about now.” He eyed the piece of furniture like he was trying to figure out how he would actually get any rest on it.
“Take my bed,” I said.
He looked up at me, confused.
“Take it. I’ll take the settee.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s no way you’re sleeping comfortably on that with those.” I pointed to his wings.
He didn’t object that the wings would be tough to navigate around. “Are . . . are you sure?”
I nodded. “Get some sleep.”
Not another word was spoken, but Silas stared at me for a long moment. I could tell through his bloodshot eyes that he appreciated the offer. He turned and made his way to the empty room and closed the door behind him, leaving Nivelle and me standing there alone in the quiet.
My hands fumbled for the fur blanket that was folded over the back of the settee as I debated whether or not to say anything else.
I wasn’t quite sure how to dissect the look she was giving me.
The slight tilt to her head and the softened lines around her mouth made me think some part of her admired what I’d just done.
She wouldn’t dare say it though. And I wasn’t going to push my luck by making a comment she might mistake as arrogance.
The room would fill with tension now, like it usually did when the two of us found ourselves in this position. I waited for it to wedge itself between us, but strangely, it wasn’t tension that crept in. It was another invisible force—an urge.
Nivelle looked the most vulnerable I’d ever seen her, knuckles whitening on the table behind her as she gripped the edge.
I abandoned the blanket and shuffled a step, then another, my boots grinding against the wood floor as I closed the distance to her.
I’d never been so aware of my size before.
I towered over her, and she tilted her head back, watching me intently.
As if I had no control over myself, I lifted my hand and gently pushed a strand of hair away from her face, studying her inked markings as I took in her features.
The gray line that split her bottom lip and trailed down the curve of her chin beckoned, and I pressed the pad of my thumb against it, tracing it over the edge of her lip—down, down—until I slid my hand along her jawline and lifted it toward me.
Her breathing hitched, eyes widening, anticipating what I might do.
My lips parted, a dozen mangled words teetering on the tip of my tongue. Her eyes flicked to my mouth, then up again, but her expression was unreadable.
I quickly realized the position I’d put us in and debated letting go and stepping away. But she hadn’t moved, hadn’t protested . . . and I . . .
Against my better judgment, I leaned in, bringing my face to hers, holding her stare. We were so close that we shared stilted breaths. I hesitated only a moment before I closed the gap between us . . .
And met nothing but air.
She’d slipped free, and by the time I turned to find her, she was at the threshold to her room, clutching onto the frame.
With only a parting stare, she disappeared into the dark, leaving me standing there, my hand still lingering where her face had been.