Page 131 of The Reaping Rose

I freeze at his question—the audacity to ask it. I glance over my shoulder and am met with the sight of water glistening over his bare skin. He glances back at me, and there’s no malice in his eyes. Simply curiosity.

Atlas turns in the water, facing me now, but staying low enough that only the top of the runes at his throat peeks out of the water. His red hair is darker wet, slicked back on his head. Sinking a bit lower into the water myself, I turn and face him, maintaining a safe distance.

“I got it after I found them,” I admit.

It’s not something I talk about. Even when I told Elorie about my parents’ deaths, I was careful in what I shared. Reliving that night isn’t something I like to do. Maybe it’s the magic in the Echme forests. Maybe it’s the vulnerability in Atlas’s eyes or the ease of the heat wrapping around me. Maybe it’s that we’ll likely die before ever leaving this place.

Something inside urges me to continue.

“They were already dead when I found them, but they weren’t alone.” My gaze moves to the trees, focusing on the leaves when Atlas’s violet stare is too much. “The males who were there… they saw me and decided they hadn’t had enough. Not even after what they’d done to my mother, who was barely whole.”

That last word chokes out, and I remember it.

All that blood.

“They overpowered me easily. Their magic was strong, and I was training to be a priestess of all things, so I didn’t fight back like I should have. As if being a priestess does any good in war.” I chuckle, but it lacks amusement. “All the training my father instilled into me was pointless in that moment. Not with what they did.”

Finally, I glance at Altas and find him watching me. Not pushing me with questions or judging what I say. Just listening.

My fingers find my eyebrows again. “They placed obsidian hooks in my eyebrows because they were worried what type of sight I might wield. I couldn’t see or think or barely breathe, but I felt it. I felt everything they did to me.”

My arms wrap my stomach, the water warming around me, even as Atlas doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t ask what they did, and I’m grateful because I can’t put words to it. I refuse to.

I did my best to leave my mind and body that night.

“Sometimes I wonder if I died that night alongside my parents,” I admit. “The female who walked into that house wasn’t the one who walked out.”

I clear my throat, moving back slightly and wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. I don’t need Atlas trying to understand me.

“What about you?” I push, feeling too vulnerable in every way right now, so I turn the focus on him. “How did you get your runes?”

That question snaps Atlas out of whatever he was thinking. He blinks, placing his palm over the line of dark markings on his chest. There aren’t many Fae who have rune marks, and none have as many as Wilder, but Atlas’s are extensive, starting at his throat and ending… somewhere lower than I dare to look.

He rubs his hand over his wet skin. “I was born with them.”

My face pinches.

“I know, I’ve never heard of that either, but my father swears they were there when I was born. Perame was first, but I…” He swallows hard. “My mother didn’t survive me. I was born with the mark of her death.”

I have no words of comfort. Nothing that might set him at ease. I simply follow his fingers as they trace down, listening as he did with me.

Atlas exhales, and I realize how close we are. We’ve drifted. Orbited closer, drawn by something beyond free will.

The desire of the fates.

I don’t pull back as he inches closer. As the water moves in lapping waves against my skin. It’s freezing out here, but beside Atlas, everything is warmer. His hand reaches out until his fingertips brush mine.

A lick of flame in water. A kiss of heat to my chilly bones.

Our fingers touch just as something rustles in the forest. The snap of teeth has my shoulders tightening, and I pull back.

“We need to go.”

Without caring what he sees or thinks, I swim to the shore and climb out of the water, leaving whatever just stirred between us to be swept away by the stream.

Chapter 44

Greer