If she’s the one who planted the poisonous berries in my meal, I don’t blame her.
She probably didn’t step into her coupling the same way I did—with a stranger, on a single-minded mission to rescue lives and absolve her guilty conscience. Her story was likely atruefairy tale filled with all the lovely things I’ve read about in fantasy stories.
I took that from her.
Me.
The thought sits in my heart as I stand, swathed in a yard of blue silk that clings to every curve. I make for my knapsack perched on the floor pillow beside the fire and retrieve the books I found earlier, singling out the little one with the plain red cover.
It feels heavy despite its size, and I stare at it while the flames from the fireplace lash warmth upon my face and hands. Pressing my nose against the leather, I draw my lungs full ofhisbarely there scent, remembering the way he handled this book—hand wrapped around the spine like he was clutching the throat of his enemy.
Mining the courage to open it, I flick through the delicate pages until I land upon theMsection and slow my pace, letting my gaze drag up and down the columns as though I’m digging my own grave. Shoveling a little dirt with every tentative flick.
“Ma ... Ma ... Me …”
My chest is tight, hands shaking.
Flick.
Flick.
“Mg …”
Flick—I can’t breathe.
“Mh …”
Flick.
“Mi—”
I slam it shut and toss it in the fire so fast I shock myself—gasping, shuffling back a step when sparks explode and fire engulfs the leather in a blazing swallow.
The corners curl, red charring black as the pages singe and scold. I peel off my dressing gown and let it fall to the floor in a puddle of silk, standing naked before the bold flames.
Empty.
Emotionless.
Vigorous heat paints my body, and I feel iteverywhere,feeding on it as if it’s the scalding lashes ofhisdisappointment when he realizes my disregard for everything he’s tried to gift me.
I don’t want to know.
Prying my stare from the sizzling sight long enough to collect my Bahari blue gown off the mannequin, I continue to watch the book burn, dressing myself one gauzy strap at a time.
There’s a thick band around my middle that ties at the back, and I pull it tight … tighter …so tight my breath is just as cinched as my waist, the band imitating the support I’m used to around my chest.
I reach for the back of my arm and pinch so hard I’m watching the fire burn through a haze of unshed tears.
There’s a knock on the door, and I blink out of my reverie.
The book is ash; the fire reduced to nothing but embers pulsing with their waning life force.
“Coming,” I call, voice as dead as I feel inside. I spin, putting my back to the drowsy hearth, grabbing the shoes and reticule that match my dress. I hitch the silky drawstring over my shoulder and make for the door in a tinkling, skin-baring charge—the beaded tendrils of my gown slithering behind me like slack corpses of gold-encrusted snakes.
My hand hits the handle just in time for it to swing out of my reach, snatching my breath.
Cainon fills the doorway with more than just his physical self, smelling like spume and sunshine. The vision of careless candor wearing a deep blue shirt that looks butter soft, a few buttons popped at the top, revealing a peek of his tawny chest. His sleeves are rolled, hair pulled back and knotted low, half concealing his undercut.
