“P-please,” she stuttered, trying not to choke on the false emotion that was flooding back in. She was shaking still, but now it was tremors of agony. “Hurts,” she whimpered.
He cursed, a long string of insults for both himself and the storm. Gently, he eased her off his lap and onto the wet sand. She hurt too badly to do anything more than lie back and struggle to breathe. The rain bombarded her face, so she rolled to her side and squeezed her eyes shut. She heard Locke yell, a savage sound that was much more like her nickname than anything she had ever done.
She didn’t know how long she lay there, shaking and soaked to the bone. But she could hear Locke panting just outside the reach of her vision. His labored breaths and grunts told her that he was fighting to take the storm down.
And after a while, she heard no more thunder. Skyfire did not light up the dark behind her eyelids. And the pound of rain on her body had ceased.
She opened her eyes, and though the skies were still black, she knew the storm was gone. Locke stood a few paces away, his shoulders rising and falling with his heavy breaths, his back curved ever so slightly. She could not see his face, only the wilted shape of his normally strong form.
The grief had drained away, but every part of her body ached as if something really had been crushing her. She felt hollowed out, like the sorrow of an entire lifetime had passed through her in moments. She stayed there, curled up in a ball, shaking from the cold. The longer Locke kept his back to her, the more doubt crept in.
When he did approach, he didn’t say anything. He just scooped her up into his arms, and began carrying her back toward the town. She swallowed down the instinct to snap that she could walk on her own, because she wasn’t sure she actually could. She leaned her head against his shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to curl her hands around his neck, but she didn’t have the courage, didn’t even know if she should want that.
This wasn’t her life. Not really. It was only a detour before she went back to her world, no matter what she had thought in the throes of his kiss. Even if she could trust him, he couldn’t trust her. And that gutted her.
Bitterness lined her tongue because she saw plainly now that she had done to him what Cassius had done to her. She’d manipulated and lied and used him to get what she needed. She curled her head into her hands and pushed her palms against her forehead, trying to block that line of thought. At least until she was alone.
“Almost there,” he said, his voice deep and gruff. He was taking care of her, even after what she had just done.
“I can walk.” Her own voice rasped, barely above a whisper.
“Don’t. Just … please don’t, Roar.”
She wasn’t sure if he meant don’t walk or don’t talk or don’t look up at the hard set of his jaw and the grim line of his mouth. So she assumed it was all of them and returned her head to his shoulder and shut her eyes against the world.
The first people of Caelira lived where the desert met the sea. They were proud like their makers and thrived in a savage land where there were far more ways to die than to live. But over time, they began to believe they needed no masters. And they took what they wanted and behaved in whatever way they wished.
—The Origin Myths of Caelira
18
He would never forgive himself. She was soaked to the bone, her skin too pale, her body curled up with her hands against her chest as if to protect her heart. He should have known the moment that it had begun to rain. She wasn’t the type to cry easily, and certainly not in front of him. Scorch it all, he should have realized. She had pushed him away after their last kiss. Why would she have suddenly thrown herself at him now?
But when her mouth touched his, every other thought fled his mind. She had clung to him so hard, which he now realized was probably because of the pain the storm had fed into her. She was not herself, probably terrified, and he let his attraction to her overrule his better instincts. It had taken more control than he wanted to admit to even keep his kiss gentle, his desires in check. He wanted to devour her, touch and taste every bit of her he could reach. The cling of wet fabric to her skin had only enflamed him more.
He swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat and quickened his pace as they approached the inn. It was late, and there did not appear to be another soul awake in the entire building. When he reached her door, he asked if she had the key. Her tired hands searched her pockets, her movements slow and jerky, and he wondered if she was still in pain. He had to set her down to unlock the door, and she leaned into him for support. He still wanted her, even though he clearly did not deserve her. And the instinct to protect and care for her was stronger than ever, even though it was him she needed protecting from.
He kicked the door open and wasted no time scooping her up into his arms once more. He didn’t want to get her bed wet, knowing that she would need to rest, so he carried her toward the wooden chair in the corner of the room. Her hands trailed over his forearms as he situated her, then dropped into her lap. Her head drooped, and his heart cracked.
He had been such a beast to her. He had lived so long thinking only of himself. Survive. Thrive. His every action had been focused on those goals, and anything that threatened them he pushed away. To lead a life like his, you had to be a little selfish. He swallowed a dark laugh, because for the first time in a while Roar reminded him of his sister again. His selfishness had harmed her too, had led directly to her death.
“I can try to wake a maid,” he said. “A bath might take away some of the chill. Or food, maybe? Something warm to drink? Or I can leave. You probably want to be alone.”
She caught his arm when he began to turn away. “Don’t. Don’t leave.” She took a shuddering breath and tilted her chin up to face him. “We need to talk.”
Of course. She deserved the right to rail at him for what he had done. But first, he wanted her resting. He moved to her bed and turned down the blankets, and then he cursed prolifically.
“Bait,” he growled, when he saw that her bed had been filled with sand. He swore. Not only were the novie’s pranks rarely funny, he always had the worst timing. It would take too long to clean, and Roar was practically falling asleep in the chair behind him.
Resigned, he gathered Roar’s bags and her tired form and took her to his room instead, and made a mental note to make the novie pay tomorrow. Once again, he sat her in a chair, then laid her bags at her feet. He checked his bed, relieved to find that Bait was not stupid enough to prank him as well.
“You change into dry clothes,” he told Roar. “I am going to get you something to eat and drink. Then … we’ll talk.”