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“Sylah?”
“Yes, Jond.”
He shifted in the sand, moving on his side. His face was a hairsbreadth from hers. “You’re my Akoma.” She felt his breath on her cheek and she shivered.
“You’re mine.” Sylah squeezed his hand but didn’t look at him. She wondered if the sparks above would ever ignite.
The view was as beautiful as he’d said. To the left was the Ruta River, the churning blue sand almost pretty in the moonlight. To the right was the Keep, the lights still burning bright. Sylah looked ahead, and her smile slipped.
“The water tower,” Jond answered her unspoken question. “I may have been a bit insistent with the Sandstorm when I chose this flat.”
“That’s how you found me?”
“I had sat watch for two weeks.”
She turned to him sharply.
“Did they order you to?”
“No, Sylah, I wanted to find you.” He reached for her hand, and she let him. The alcohol still raged in her blood, but she felt more in control.
“You’re lucky. I hadn’t been there in a long time.”
She looked at him then, truly saw him for who he was. A scar ran down the side of his face, and she reached for it with her other hand. It was darker than his skin, yet silvery and smooth like the underbelly of a fish. Her finger ran the length of it, reading the story it told. The story of a boy who was no longer a boy but a man.
Her Akoma.
