Page 74

“Well,” he says, brushing snow from his sleeves, “you’ve made me eat my words.”

“I did warn you.”

He steps toward me, close enough that his scent of pine and leather eclipses that of the mountain air. “I have some things to handle before dinner tonight. If you want to stay here longer, you can.”

I glance at the wind harps, and my theïkós stirs, eager to help me burn off the restless energy.

I turn back to him. “I’ll stay. I’ll meet you at the tower later.”

“All right. But don’t do anything—”

“Reckless.”

“Exactly.” His gaze lingers, and when it finally shifts, it leaves a trace of heat on my skin.

In one fluid motion, he unfurls his wings and launches into the air. With a few powerful wingbeats, he turns and soars away, his figure cutting through the pale morning sky.

Only when he disappears into the valley below do I remember to breathe. Then I turn back toward the harps.

I am being stalked.

The realization settles over me as I make my way down the mountain toward the tower.

I pause and glance back in the direction of the wind harps, narrowing my eyes as the tip of a white tail vanishes behind a jutting rock a fraction too late.

The leonai stayed the entire day.

I spent hours practicing with the harps, alternating between coaxing their song forth and working through each of Lyxander’s lessons. And all the while, the leonai hadn’t left. It sometimes perched on the rocks, other times creeping closer, its molten eyes fixed on me with an intensity that kept all my senses alert.

And now, it’s following me.

Turning back toward my path, I keep walking, the crunch of snow beneath my boots the only sound in the stillness. The sensation of a predator’s gaze raises the fine hairs on the nape of my neck, but I force my steps to remain steady until I reach the arched wooden door at the base of the tower.

My hand finds the iron handle, then I spin on my heel.

The leonai is there, not far away, its sleek white fur blending into the snow except for the brown patch of dried blood matted on its hind leg. One paw hovers above the ground, frozen mid-step.

My fingers tighten on the door handle, the cold seeping into my skin, but I don’t look away. The leonai’s chest rises and falls in slow, measured breaths, its wings tucked tightly against its sides.

“You’re not very subtle, are you?” I say.

The leonai doesn’t respond, of course, but its paw lowers to the ground. It shifts, favoring its left side and keeping most of its weight off the injured leg. Then it sits back on its haunches, its luminous golden eyes never leaving mine.

Would it let me get close enough to check its wound?

I bite my bottom lip, my gaze flicking to the brown matted fur.

Slowly, I take a step closer.

The leonai doesn’t move, but its ears flick.

I take another tentative step, and it pulls its lips back in a silent snarl, muscles bunching.

“Easy,” I murmur.

But the leonai isn’t caught in a trap this time. In a blur of white and silver, it pushes off its haunches and bolts, its injured leg barely brushing the ground as it bounds away. Snow sprays in its wake, and within seconds, it’s gone, vanishing behind a jagged outcrop of rock.

I let out a sharp breath, frustration and concern twisting together in my chest. “Suit yourself!”