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There’s a beautiful woman on the mats, her long dark hair tied back in a braid, looking like a caramel-skinned tomb raider.
“Concentrate, Irena,” I hear Asher bark. My heart jumps in my chest. This is the woman Drystan was so worried about entering the fights. I don’t see why. Her body is sculpted marble. Strong, sinewy muscle glistens like diamonds beneath the morning sun. She’s lean and taut, her clearly defined abs on display for everyone to see.
Sipping my coffee, I watch with interest as she goes toe to toe with a bulky vampire who’s taunting her. It takes a few minutes, and she stumbles slightly at first, but soon, she’s meeting him punch for punch, kick for kick. The whole time, her eyes are closed.
My breath catches in my throat when Asher turns toward the terrace. There’s a dark look in his eye that’s filled with hunger and desire. It makes my legs clench together and my pussy throb, remembering the pleasure he’s elicited between them. I give him a small, shy smile, but he doesn’t reciprocate.
Asher turns and gives me his back, as if I don’t matter to him.
Why would I when he has someone as gorgeous as Irena in front of him? I’ll never be as graceful as she is, nor as beautiful. I’m human and, therefore, flawed. I have nothing to offer him. Clenching my jaw, I take a long breath through my nose and slowly release it. Miriam and one of the kitchen girls come out with a few trays of food, but I’m no longer hungry.
Something darkens my vision when the girl sets a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. But it isn’t her shadow or a cloud passing over the sun. It’s the girl’s aura. What is normally a vibrant color is now chalky with small wormlike holes eating away at it.
The girl’s smile wavers slightly when she takes in my furrowed brow and creased lips.
“What is it, dear?” Miriam asks, worry evident in her tone. She looks back and forth between me and the girl, who is retreating to the kitchen in a hurry. “You look…perplexed.”
“Is she sick?”
“Who?” Miriam’s forehead creases. “The maid? Lia?”
I nod. The housekeeper shakes her head. “Not that I know of.”
“Ask her.”
Maybe I’m misreading her, but I rarely do. A chalky aura often means sickness, but the holes…I’ve never seen those before. It’s like something is eating away at her. Miriam eases away from the table and into the kitchen. I can see the two conversing just beyond the glass doors, their gazes darting to me every few seconds.
The girl, Lia, says something that has Miriam nodding her head and giving her a warm hug. She doesn’t look distressed, though. Neither of them does. They both appear happy.
So, I’m wrong. Lia isn’t sick.
I take a small sip of my coffee; the sweet taste is like ash on my tongue as my thoughts wander back to the three Kings. Miriam comes back out to save me from the dark thoughts that have begun to swirl around in the fog, thickening it.
“She isn’t sick,” Miriam tells me, eyeing me curiously. “Why did you think she was?”
I shrug. “It’s nothing,” I say. “I was wrong, anyway. Sorry for worrying you.”
Miriam brushes it off and takes a seat in the chair next to me. “First, there’s nothing to be sorry about. You showed concern for someone who’s practically a stranger. Many would ignore the signs that her aura was giving off.”
“It’s hard to ignore when there are literal holes in…” Wait. Eyes wide, I focus on the woman next to me. “How did you…” She can’t know what I saw, can she? Is that part of being a fae?
Miriam smiles kindly. “There are a few times I have noticed you eyeing some of the staff a little harder than normal. Particularly the ones who have a bit of a shine to them.”
“You can see the colors too?” I ask incredulously.
Miriam nods her head. “Not as well as you can, I bet, but fae are often able to see glimmers of another’s aura if it’s strong enough. I did notice that Lia’s had dimmed a bit over the last few days.”
“But she isn’t sick?”
Miriam shakes her head, her eyes glowing. “No, dear child. She’s pregnant.”
Pregnant? What an odd aura to have if you are pregnant. Like she’s being eaten from the inside out.
“How long have you been able to read people like that?” Miriam asks, taking a seat across from me.
I think back, but honestly, I can’t remember a time when I haven’t seen the colors. Even as a child, I remember asking my father why his colors were so dark and shaded. He always blew me off, chastising me for having such an active imagination. After several attempts to get him to understand, I gave up. No one listened to me when I told them about what I could see. They all told me I was looney and making it up for attention.
No one ever believed me.
