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Heat sluiced through my veins, reigniting the ache deep inside me. I sucked in a gasp as my nails dragged over the peak of my breast. I moved restlessly, hips rocking. The tips of my breasts had never been all that sensitive, but they tingled then, becoming almost painful as damp heat gathered low, between my thighs. My pulse thrummed as I shifted onto my back, closing my eyes as I slipped my hand down over my stomach and lower, drawing the nightgown up as I went. Cool air kissed the heated space between my legs, wringing a soft gasp from me. I jerked as my fingers touched the bare skin of my upper thighs, burning me— burning through me, because it wastheirtouch I conjured up.
I spread my thighs, my breaths coming in short, shallow pants as my fingers grazed the sensitive, taut flesh. I jerked again, toes curling as I dipped my fingers lower. Pressing my head back, I moaned as I lifted my hips. I teased just as I knew Naomi would have, just as I imagined my lord would if I had stayed in that shower. It wasn’t my fingers that plunged through my slippery wetness or curled around my breast. It was Naomi’s and then his, working me until I was thrusting up. I arched, wanting more. Needing more.
Touch me.
The memory of his voice tumbled me over the edge, into ecstasy, and I was swept away by the tense but too-short waves of pleasure. I was left panting and . . . and still aching.
Still unfulfilled.
Because it hadn’t been Naomi’s touch. It hadn’t been his. It had only been my own fingers.
I dragged in a deep breath, and my eyes flew open as I caught a faint woodsy, soft scent.
His scent.
I turned my head to the settee across from the bed, where I had left the cloak he had given me. I should do something with it. Donate it. Trash it. Maybe burn it.
I sighed, my gaze flicking to the ceiling, and then I sat up, going to the bathing chamber. I splashed cool water over my face, the restlessness still there, the—
The urge returned, the one from the solarium.
The want.
Theneedto be out there.
I padded barefoot to the window and looked out. Immediately, I spied the floating, glowing balls of light that appeared in the night sky somewhere between the end of spring and the beginning of summer, in the weeks before the Feasts, and then disappeared shortly after.
A smile raced across my face at the sight of them. I pushed away from the window and slipped my feet into a pair of thin-soled shoes. Grabbing a midnight-blue, short-sleeved robe from the bathing chamber, I slipped it on and belted it at my waist as I glanced at theluneadagger on the nightstand, reminding myself to ask Grady if he had an extra sheath for it.
Leaving through the terrace doors, I crossed the back lawn, avoiding the partygoers as I made my way to the narrow footbridge that crossed the small stream and entered the gardens. I followed the winding path of the Baron’s gardens, focused on the bright spheres drifting down from high above like stars to float among the sweeping loblolly pine. The magical lights cast a soft glow as they filled the sky. They’d always fascinated me, even as a child. I couldn’t remember if the Prioress had ever told me why they appeared when they did. I’d asked Claude once, but he’d shrugged and said they were just a part of the Hyhborn.
That really hadn’t told me anything.
My steps slowed as one of the spheres, about the size of my hand, floated down from the trees to hover a few feet in front of me, surprising me. I’d never been this close to one, not even before I came to Archwood. I took a hesitant step forward, half afraid the orb would flutter away or disappear.
It didn’t.
The ball of light remained close enough for me to see that it wasn’t just one central light. My eyes widened. It was actually a series of tiny lights clustered together. The orb pulsed, then drifted away, slowly returning to the trees above. I watched the lights dip and rise as if they were joined in a dance before they fluttered back into the trees.
Toying with the edge of my braid, I started walking again, trailing after the lights as night birds sang from the trees. The peace of the gardens calmed my mind. I wondered if Claude would be against me setting up a . . . a hammock out here? I doubted I would have any problems—
Stop.
I jerked to a sudden halt. Brows knitting, I slowly turned and faced an archway to my right. My fingers twitched as an acute sense of awareness washed over me, pressing between my shoulder blades.
Intuition had sparked. It had done so well over an hour ago, I realized. There had been that urge to leave the solarium and enter the gardens.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered, staring into the darkened pathway.
I held myself still, my heart kicking unsteadily in my chest. Only the gods knew what my intuition wanted to lead me toward tonight. I didn’t even want to know. My fingers gave a spasm, muscles trembling as I fought the pull of intuition.
“Damn it.” I blew out an aggravated breath and crossed under the archway.
Very little moonlight pierced the large wisteria trees and their heavy vines, and only a few glowing spheres glided high up in the trees, their soft glow illuminating the pale blue trailing stems. Brushing aside the low-hanging limbs, I continued along the path, traveling deep within the wisteria trees.
Then I felt it, a sudden change to the air. It had cooled, but there was a thickness to it. A heaviness.Power.I’d felt this before—
“Like I just said, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” A man was speaking up ahead. There was a . . . a cadence to his speech, where certain letters were trilled, that was uncommon to the Midlands region, but his voice also did something to me. It felt like thistle weeds against my skin, and it opened that door in my mind.
