I scoff, staring at the page but not really reading the words. BeingGiven. What a nice, pretty way to describe being ritualistically sacrificed.
If people knew that the gods-blessed were being Harvested like stalks of wheat, cut down and killed, would they fight for us? Push back against the king? Or—and this sends a shiver downmy spine—would they turn a blind eye and ignore the fact that we’re dying because we’re Marked and they’re not? Would they let us suffer—let us die—because we look different?
Maybe they wouldn’t be concerned becausetheyaren’t Marked.Theyaren’t the ones slated to be sacrificed.
But what I’ve come to learn is darkness has no limits. Evil knows no bounds, certainly not when in the hands of those in power. Eventually, death will not stop at the Marked Ones. The horrors of this land will spread.
But by then, it might be too late. The king might be too powerful.
And we might all fall.
The pounding in my head gets worse, and I stifle a groan. I have so many fucking questions and so few answers. The king must be Marked, right? That must be why he’s Harvesting our power. But why does he need so much of it? Why is he killing everyone?
I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
I have so many questions about the Harvests and the Blessed, but that’s not even the end of it. The Inherited are the third, mysterious part of the puzzle. Not just for me, but for everyone, it seems.
Even the authors of all these books are mystified by the Inherited. They seem to have remnants of magic inside them, but since they are unmarked, they aren’t able to use their magic in the same way as the Blessed.
I think my grandmother was an Inherited. It would make sense if those feelings she got, the ones that were always right, were magical in origin. But she’s dead, and I’ll never know for sure.
Gabriel, though . . .
The seer seems certain he is an Inherited. It’s the reason my bond with him exists, she explained, the reason we are soconnected, and the reason why his gut is always right, as he puts it.
I peer over my shoulder at the Hunter, who is studying the page in front of him. His hand is spread across the back of the book, carefully balancing it as he flips the pages, mouth moving silently as he reads.
Scruff covers the bottom half of his face. He didn’t shave this morning, adding to the rugged handsomeness that seems to be his natural state. The longer I study him, the more heat coils past my navel.
Who knew a man with a book in his hands could be so attractive? Gabriel is focusing, his brows creased as though the pages contain all the secrets of the universe.
What would it be like to have him concentrate on me like that, to look at me so intently, as if I’m the only one in the world? For him to run his fingers over my skin like the page and whisper endearments as he kisses his way down?—
“Enjoying the view, little bird?” Gabriel rumbles, an amused lilt to his voice. His lips twitch into a smile.
I jerk my head away so fast, I’m surprised my neck doesn’t crack. Heat rushes to my cheeks, burning nearly as hot as my Mark. I stare at my own reading material, curling my fingers around the edges and biting back a groan.
“I was just... looking at your book.” Wow. Couldn’t I think of something better to say? “It looks... interesting.”
Suns, I’m so fucking awkward. Why can’t I have a single normal conversation with this man? One would think that would be possible since the gods fated us to be together, but it hasn’t happened yet.
Maybe one of them could strike me with a stray bolt of lightning, getting me out of this situation with the Hunter whose eyes are drilling into the back of my head.
“Really?” Gabriel says dryly. “I didn’t knowThe Science Behind Magicwas so intriguing.”
Is that the name of his book? I didn’t even notice.
“Well, now you do.” Since the gods have apparently decided I’m not good enough to strike with lightning—no fucking surprise there—I stare at the page in front of me. The letters jumble together, burning themselves into my retinas. “I was taking a closer look, that’s all.”
I certainly wasn’t imagining what it would feel like to have him kissing me all over, paying attention to me in the oldest of ways. Maybe in our cabin, with far fewer clothes between us...
Stop it, Wren, I scold myself.Get a fucking grip.
This is happening because Gabriel and I are still sharing a bed. The proximity must be the reason why I keep having thoughts like this.
Gabriel makes an amused sound in the back of his throat as if he knows what I’m thinking about. And maybe he does—the man is just so gods-damned perceptive. Inwardly, I groan.
Papers rustle behind me. A book closes.
