Is that…
As if the universe hears my unsaid question, a playful summer breeze pushes Sylar’s hood from his head. Obsidian hair falls around his shoulders, a dark, magical black that shimmers like the midnight sky.
Unable to stop myself, I take a few steps forward until I’m able to get a better view. All the air rushes from my lungs. He’s so fucking beautiful. Thick, black eyebrows and a sharp jawline. Plush lips that look so fucking kissable and lashes so thick it’s as if he wears kohl around his eyes.
“Sylar,” I breathe his name, but the word barely leaves my lips before the sound gets completely lost beneath the heavy laughter and clatter of the passing elves. A lifetime of memories surfaces as soon as I say his name out loud. All those years we were tutored together. The times I tried my hardest to get him to talk. Those bashful blushes and curious glances.
Once again, it feels like the cosmos—or perhaps the ancient magic of the market itself—is determined to pull us together. Against all odds, my quiet whisper catches on a sudden breeze, floating straight through the chaos until it brushes against his ear. He jerks his head up, and suddenly we’re making eye contact across the crowded yard. Before I can say anything, more people shuffle forward, blocking our view.
A few elves smack into him, and I can see he’s quickly getting frustrated. A deep frown falls across his face, and I want to do nothing but protect this man. This big, strong, beautiful man who easily outweighs me, and yet there’s something so sweet and tender about him. He’s a tempting yet grumpy and bashful elf.
I vaguely hear Isolde and Talia squeal with delight when a group of Emberleigh dancers starts performing up on a nearby stage ahead, but my focus is on Sylar. Isolde or maybe Talia, I’m not entirely sure who, but one of them shouts that they’re going to check it out. Before Sylar can reply, they’re already gone, disappearing into the crowd.
He’s left alone and looking a little flustered.
As the music grows louder, more elves swarm around us, pushing and dancing toward the front of the stage, shoving my poor, gentle giant this way and that. Someone bumps into him asking if Sylar has seen theirsocks. I get the impression the elf isn't talking clothing, but Sylar shakes his head anyway. I immediately recognize that wide-eyed look on his face.
When I first started performing and competing in archery tournaments, nerves and anxiety used to get the best of me. I see it now in Sylar’s posture and the pained look on his face. He’s extremely uncomfortable and doesn’t want to be here.
Unable to take it anymore, I rush forward, reaching for his hand. My hood is still on, obscuring my face. He tries to jerk his hand back, but I grip it quickly. “This way,” I say, tugging his hand. “I know a spot that will get you away from the crowd.”
Those must have been the magical words to say because rather than jerking his hand away, he’s suddenly gripping mine in a death grip. I weave him through the throngs of people past the shrine and on the edge of the forest. We both walk fast and with purpose, all the while he never lets go of my hand.
I make a wide berth around the marketplace pavilion and tug him into a small alcove of trees.
A flash of orange zips above us, Cinder probably already aware of my feelings, thanks to our magical bond.
“Over here,” I say, tugging him toward a secret little bench I found a few years back. He practically collapses onto it, as if he’s a puppet with his strings that have just been cut.
His hood is still pushed back, exposing his face, but he’s sweating bullets. It’s then that I notice that he’s wearing a cloak that is way too heavy for this midsummer heat.Sweet merciful goddess, why would he be wearing something this thick?
Without even thinking, my fingers find the drawstrings and pull, untying the bow.
The heavy cloak falls to the ground, pooling around his boots.
“What are you doing?” he hisses.
“It’s far too hot for you to be wearing something like that, Sylar,” I say in a singsong, flirty voice, trying to keep things light enough to distract him.
He freezes when he hears my voice. Or maybe it’s at the sound of a stranger saying his name.
“Who are you?” Going by the angry tone, I am assuming he already knows.He always got so defensive around me.Well, might as well see where the dice land.Standing in front of him, I pull my cloak back.
His mouth falls open in shock, but I don’t miss the way his brown eyes dilate and darken when he studies my face.
“Hey, Sy, did you miss me?”
Chapter three
Sylar
Timeseemstostretch.I freeze, my breath catching in my chest as the sheer, undeniable recognition of his voice sends a sudden, treacherous warmth straight to my core. The air between us instantly grows thick, humming with a heavy, magnetic weight before I can even see his face.
That voice.
That beautiful, thundering rumble brings back a memory.
Over the years, I kept tabs on Raylen. Either through the gossip rags, brief encounters, or from stories from Isolde. Three years after Raylen left for his apprenticeship, I started tutoring his sister. There were rumors that Raylen came to visithis family often, but I made it my purpose to avoid the elf I could never get off my mind.
