“He wouldn’t.” She forced a hand to her chest as if to hold herself together.
Caelith shook his head, his gaze heavy with regret. “You have my word as a Lord of the Vale.” His attention drifted to the club, his nose crinkling ever so slightly. “That’s why I came down here,” he continued. “I felt obligated to tell you before you saw him again. As Deyric is my servant, and thus, his conduct—however disgraceful—is ultimately my responsibility, I needed to warn you.”
Her mouth opened, then closed, but no words came. She searched Caelith’s face, scanning for any sign of insincerity, any tell that would unravel this web before it tightened around her. But he only looked back at her with careful concern, a mask of quiet sympathy.
Deyric wouldn’t. Would he?
“Oh my, petal.” Caelith patted her arm like she was a delicate thing in need of handling. “You look as if you might faint. Let me get you something to drink. Then I’ll take you home. My glider is just out front.”
She shook her head, the motion jerky, immediate. “Idon’t—”
She didn’t want to go anywhere with him. She wanted to find Deyric. She needed to straighten this out, but Caelith was already gone, moving through the crowd toward the bar.
Emmaline sucked in a breath, gaze darting across the dance floor. She should slip away now, vanish into the press of bodies, put as much distance between herself and this conversation as possible. Or maybe she should find Ursula and wedge herself into a protective barrier of leather and bloodstained knives.
But before she could decide, he was back, carrying a tall, thin glass of something clear and softly effervescent. Tiny bubbles clung to the rim, winking in the blinking club lights.
“Spring water.” He extended it to her, his fingers grazing hers as she took it.
Her breath hitched at the contact, a small, startling shock snapping up her arm like a burst of static beneath her skin.
“Thank you.” She blinked down at the glass. She probably did need some water. After everything she had drunk tonight, her throat was parched, her body heavy with the slow, creeping exhaustion of the evening.
She lifted the glass to her lips, tilting it back—
Caelith never looked away, his face unreadable, watching her as she swallowed.
The taste was fresh and clean, cool in a way that went deeper than temperature, like the first sip from a mountain stream untouched by the filth of the world. It slid down smooth, crisp, carrying a faint, almost electric hum, causing her head to swim.
“You said this was water?” The words felt slow, a little distant.
She barely noticed Caelith’s thumb, tracing small, deliberate circles against the back of her free hand. It was a soft, rhythmic motion, soothing in its repetition, except for the faint, lingering slickness he left behind, oily and clinging.
“Spring water.” His voice rolled through her, deep and resonant. “From Cerridwyn’s Well.”
A place so well known, yet nearly myth, it was a hidden spring nestled deep within the Vale’s original heart, said to be the place Lyra first stepped back in time and into the ancient Ellyllon city.
“Oh…” The sound spilled from her lips, languid, sultry, like a slow exhale of pleasure. A warmth coiled in her limbs, loosening the tension in her muscles and sending a delicious tremor down her spine. Her fingers skimmed the bottom of the glass as she swayed slightly toward him, the world contracting to the deep ocean-blue of his eyes.
“That sounds lovely.” Her words stretched out as if time itself had unraveled, slowed into something rich and heavy. “You got this for me?”
“Yes, petal.”
Caelith’s fingers skimmed her cheekbone, gliding downward, following the curve of her face, the line of her jaw, before dragging over her lips—just enough for her to feel a ghost of pressure that left her breath stuttering.
This time, she didn’t turn away.
Why had she been so eager to flee from him, anyway? The unease from earlier felt foreign, like a memory from another life, one that had no place here. He’d come all this way, through the depths of the Gloam, to one of the seediest clubs in the city just to check onher. That was devotion, wasn’t it? Proof of something real? She had wanted this for so long. For years.
Her fingers itched to touch him in return, but something stirred deep inside her, something thin and scared, warning her that this was wrong, that she was drowning in something she didn’t understand.
She silenced it. Caelith was her mate. This was how she was supposed to feel. She took another sip of the spring water.
“Let me take you home.” His words were low against her ear, lips barely skimming the edge of her jaw.
A wave of heat washed over her, and her skin prickled with awareness, every nerve attuned to him—the closeness of his body, the warmth of his breath, the way his fingers traced her arm.
She leaned into him, heart hammering. “I…”
