I spin, looking up into his eyes, searching for any hint of reprieve.
All that’s staring back is a cold disconnect.
It should chill me to the bone. On a normal day, it would. But my insides are throbbing with this hot, intimate pulse I can’t seem to douse.
“Rhor,” Baze warns but is silenced with a bat of Rhordyn’s hand.
“Answer me, Orlaith.”
I feel like this answer will determine my fate; whether I’ll be burned at the stake like some of the women in books I’ve read or if the flames licking at my feet are only temporary.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I was confused that my tutor never taught me religious studies or even spoke about these supposedGods. I’ve never read anything about them in Spines.”
“That’s because it’s allbullshit,” he says, and I flinch at the slash of his tone. He reaches around me, and I almost choke on his deep, manly scent as he snatches the book off the table and waves it through the air. “Why do you think this ended up in a dusty old cellar?”
I daub my brow with my sweater sleeve. “I don’t know, Rhordyn.”
“Well,” he purrs, and although his voice is treacle, I get the sense of a snake preparing to strike. “Consider this your religious lesson for the day. Believe me when I tell you, anyGodsworth worshiping would take more pride in their position, and they certainly wouldn’t leave it to someone else to clean up their mess.”
He flicks his wrist and the book goes fluttering over his shoulder.
I squeal, jolting as it lands in the belly of the mammoth fireplace atop a stack of blazing wood. Sparks explode, embers crackle, and I feel like it’s my heart he just lobbed into the raging inferno. Flames gobble up the rich tapestry of ancient culture and beliefs, and my eyes sting as I watch the pages blacken and curl—all those beautiful, telling pictures falling victim to a fiery demise.
“That was a beautiful book,” I whisper past the lump in my throat, feeling a tear dart down my cheek.
“And it madefantasticfirewood,” Rhordyn snips before charging back to his seat.
I wait in patient stillness, watching the pages burn, listening for sounds of him filling his plate. It’s a hollow hope—the sort that’s aching for sustenance to fill its void and give it something to feed on.
The sort of hope that leaves me winded when those sounds never come.
Unable to watch any longer, I turn from the book, haunted by the hungry crackle behind me as I wipe the swells of my cheeks. I clear my throat, lift my chin, and try to focus on a platter of fruit, searching for any sense of appetite. Trying to ease my mind from the heartbreak flaming at my back and the internal smolder that’s threatening to offer me a similar fate.
“Eat, Orlaith.”
I very nearly scream the same thing back, but think better of it. He just burned a relic of ancient lore as if it were nothing but trash. Who’s to say he won’t toss me in the fire, too?
That’s a bit dramatic, but his extreme demonstration set the trend.
Hand trembling, I pluck a peach from the pile and rest its furry, sunset skin against my parted lips ...
Rhordyn’s stare is a cube of ice being dragged down the side of my face, a vast contrast to the fire blazing in my belly; shifting lower ...lower... spreading across my belly button like the stretching wings of a bird.
Perhaps the Gods are punishing me for leadingTe Bruk o’ Avalansteto a fiery demise?
Battling to keep my hands steady, I set the peach in the center of my otherwise empty plate and roll the sleeves of my sweater. When that doesn’t cool me down, I peel the entire thing off, seeking an ounce of relief from this small sun dawning in my abdomen, setting my skin alight.
“Laith. Are you feeling okay?”
I look to Baze watching me with narrowed eyes, a slice of meat pinched between his fingers that seems to be forgotten about. He’s dressed in a thick sweater while I’m considering whether it’s socially acceptable to strip down to my chest wrap and panties at the dinner table. Because this button-down, these pants ...
They’resuffocatingmy skin.
“It’s just a bit hot this morning. Can someone douse the fire? How are you bearing this heat wearing all those clothes?”
I wiggle in my seat, trying to temper some innate itch I can’t seem to pin down. The friction makes me quiver from the tips of my toes all the way to my fluttering lids, but does nothing to quell my smoldering skin.
If anything, it makes it worse ... although now I’ve started, I can’t seem tostop.
