Page 92 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

She stiffened, glancing over her shoulder.

And instantly regretted it.

His eyes were molten silver, just as they’d been beneath the stars on the balcony last night. They burrowed into her, heating her with something she couldn’t acknowledge.

The sea air wrapped his sandalwood scent tighter around them.

“Sorry,” she breathed, trying to scoot up, but the water was working against her, the ebb of the tide drawing her back. She rocked into the cradle of his hips, her hand fumbling against his thigh.

“Emmeline,” Roremar grunted as she unintentionally ground against him.

“Yes?” she croaked.

“For the love of the Fates,” he hissed, “stop squirming.”

“I’m sorry, I’m trying to get more room between⁠—”

“No.” Roremar’s voice was threatening. “Don’t you dare move, Huntress.” Dark desire dripped through his every word. His command.

Though she’d seen the heady lust in his expression before, this was the first time she really believed it. The attraction she was trying not to acknowledge, the pull in her blood and warmth below her belly—Roremar clearly felt it, too. Daringly, she lifted her gaze to his.

Without breaking his stroke, Roremar held her stare.

Emmeline was frozen beneath it, hunger wrapping tight around her bones, stealing every thought she’d ever had. His hands were still firmly on the oars, not a finger even brushing her, and yet she felt him. Drowned in the silver of his eyes and the hum beneath her skin as he looked at her.

Yes, something within her tried to purr, prompting her to claim those salacious thoughts.

As if Roremar heard it, he dropped his lips to her ear. “What’s wrong, Emmeline?”

His breath fanned over her flesh, and she blamed her answering shiver on the salty spray of the sea. “Nothing,” she insisted. “I’m just not used to traveling by boat. It’s got me a bit…upset.”

“Upset?”

“Yes,” she forced out.

“Don’t worry, Huntress. We’re almost there. Then, you can…relax.” And Fates be damned, Roremar winked.

Whipping her head back around, Emmeline kept her eyes on the coast for the rest of the short ride. She forced herself to focus on the mission ahead, but her thoughts kept melting together, as if that silver gaze was starfire begging to incinerate every ounce of clarity she clung to.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Roremar

Once they set foot on Alvan, Roremar forced himself not to think of how Emmeline felt pressed against him.

Instead, he thought of Leo every step he took through the winding cobbled streets. When he saw the towering statues of Arenothos and Aevollon marking the entrance to the city through Forge’s Cove, when they passed murals splashed with bloody histories of hard-fought wars, and when they reached the sun dial in the center of town, a marker of a myth about the Fate of Artistry and Trickery, he thought of his brother.

He thought of his youngest sister, Siena, when they passed an artist’s boutique—paint splattered on floors, countertops, and canvases. Though Roremar had always suspected it was more due to her infatuation with Desmond than anything, she adored her art classes.

But she also itched for the day steel was placed in her hand. Of all his siblings, she bore the truest warrior heart. So Siena would have loved it here, in the unique crossroads of art and warfare.

That’s what Roremar thought of. Not Emmeline’s ass grinding against him or the way her heart audibly pounded when she looked at him. He soaked in everything he’d tell his siblings about Alvan as their group found the place they’d reserved rooms, the Hound’s Inn.

Tucked away from the main thoroughfare near Forge’s Cove, it was built into the steep incline. Red flowers rolled over one side of the yellow building, moss coating the facade between the fiery hues. The shutters were thrown wide, a sign above declaring to the empty side alley that they had vacancies for the evening.

Roremar held the door for Emmeline and Myrella, and Fates be damned, he couldn’t stop his eyes from catching on the former’s swaying hips and the curve of her waist as she walked past him into the dim interior.

And then, again, like the pathetic man he was, Roremar couldn’t stop thinking about how her eyes had been drawn to his mouth and how some asinine part of his memory was constantly tracing the way her tongue flicked across her lips as she fought to collect herself.