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Wood splinters, and the cart I crashed into topples over. All the bottles inside smash onto the street. Red wine splashes out like blood and soaks me.
Dazed, I stare at the debris.
Footsteps hurry toward me.
“Are you all right?” a low male voice asks, nudging my shoulder.
Still disoriented, I blink a few times until my sight refocuses. I tilt back my head and turn my attention upward.
A very handsome stranger gazes down at me.
Twenty-Four
Westareateachother,neitherofussayinganything.Thenightbreezetugsonthefine,goldenstrandsofhiswavyhair.Ahintoffairstubbledustshisjawline,andhisemeraldeyesglistenintheradianceofthesurroundingaethercrystals.I’veneverseensuchavibrantshadeofgreen.
His gaze breaks away from mine, and he scans over the rest of me. I follow his eyes as they sweep over my torn sleeves and the grazed skin peeking from beneath.
He seems to remember himself then and jolts back to life. He reaches for my hand, which is scraped from the uneven stones. “Here,” he says. “Allow me to help you up.”
I don’t protest as he takes my hand and guides me back onto my feet. Lightning sparks from our conjoined fingers and surges up my arm. It’s as though magic is pounding through my body, but I know this energy isn’t aether. Yet it feels like sorcery, nonetheless.
His doublet is of scarlet satin, with a filigree pattern entwining the cuffs and the high collar. Beneath it he wears dark breeches and polished black boots which reach his mid-calves. He appears to be a few years older than me—certainly no more than five—and stands only a few inches taller. His fingers are also callused, which is unexpected since his clothes suggest he is of nobility.
“Have we met before?” I blurt, the words out of my mouth sooner than I can realize. I immediately regret them. He must already think me an idiot for gawking at him, let alone for asking him such a ridiculous question. Of course we have never met before today. How would I forget those striking emerald eyes?
Fortunately, he doesn’t mock me for the question. He only blinks at me. His fair lashes are long enough to make even Eliya jealous.
“No,” he says. “No, we have never met.”
Unable to withstand the intensity of his gaze, I lower mine and focus on the cobblestones beneath. Thousands of tiny glass shards glitter around us like fallen stars. Puddles of blood-red wine streak across the street.
“You’re hurt,” he says, examining the scrapes on my arm. My eyes drift over the wreckage surrounding us. I notice the labels of his smashed bottles:RuberraandSanguilus. While they are both nowhere near as expensive as moon-blossom wine, they certainly aren’t cheap.
“All your wine! I’m so terribly sorry—”
“Don’t be,” he says, cutting me off. “They’re only wine bottles. They don’t matter.”
“But so many are broken!”
“And you are injured.” There’s a softness to his voice, which makes me shiver. I do my best to stifle my reaction to him.
“I’m fine,” I say, pulling my arm from his grasp. He lets me go.
His perfectly straight brows pinch together. They’re as golden as his wavy locks. “Are you sure?”
“They’re just shallow scratches. With a bit of Blood Balm, I’ll be healed within a few hours.”
The handsome stranger says nothing. He continues to stare at me with that piercing gaze of his, making me feel increasingly uncomfortable. I suppose I could bid him good night and continue on my way, but I don’t. I could tell myself it’s because I feel guilty over smashing so many of his wine bottles, but I would be lying if I said it has nothing to do with the way I feel inexplicably drawn to him.
“Where were you taking your cart?” I ask.
“Oh,” he says, scratching the back of his head and disturbing the golden locks which tumble from there. “Back to my tavern.”
“You own a tavern?”
“I do,” he replies. “The Old Dove.”
“Oh, I know that one. Isn’t it a few streets away from The Violet Tree?”
