Every day, I fail a bit more.
“Not when we arrive, no. We’ll save the official celebrations for when we’re coupled.”
He’s watching me. Regarding me. Like he’s waiting to see if my curiosity will snatch his dangling bait.
“And when might that be?”
His eyes gleam with a hint of satisfaction. “We only have to wait until the next full moon. Our ceremonies are unique and take time to prepare, so it’s good we have a few weeks to get things in order. I’ll settle for nothing but the best, since I only intend on doing this once.”
Only intend on doing this once …
Those words rummage through me.
“And the ships? When do you expect they’ll be fit to sail?”
Another powerful pull strains the tendons in his arms, up the length of his neck. “By the time we’re officially coupled,” he puffs out, and my heart drops.
In other words: just accepting his cupla doesn’t count for shit.
No coupling, no ships.
I have to open my legs for the man before he’ll do his part to preserve innocent lives, and something about that grates me the wrong way, mining a humorless laugh from somewhere deep down in my ashy depths. It spills out while I hold his crushing cobalt stare like he’s my captive and not the other way around.
He frowns. “Something funny, Orlaith?”
We drift into the hollow belly of the cave as my laughter tapers off.
He’s forced to break my stare in order to maneuver our small boat right beside an empty one. Deep, amplified thuds bounce off the curved wall like an attack as he secures us to the edge of a smooth stone platform, and my feet burst with a tingling sensation that makes my toes curl.
I swallow, overwhelmed by the ravenous surge of yearning to plant my feet on that stone.
Cainon reaches for my sack—
I snatch it closer.
He stares down at me through blown pupils. “You’re going to carry it up those stairs yourself, are you?”
I nod. “I’m sick of watching you throw it around like it’s a sack of trash.”
“And what about your hand? Your shoulder?”
I toss my belongings over my healing side, not even wincing from the dull twinge of ache. “Your medis’s near-constant care over the past week has done them both wonders. My shoulder feels much better, and my hand has scabbed over,” I say, waving it at him.
“The stone is slimy in places. With all the extra weight, you’ll likely slip. Especially without any boots on your feet.”
My heart drops, and a surge of desperation claws up my throat.
Softens my voice.
“I’m not used to shoes. I’m more likely to trip with them on than with them off …”
Silence boils between us.
“I’ll put them on when we get to the top,” I add, peeking at the stone, resisting the urge to leap past him before he can object.
Please don’t make me put them on yet.
Please.
