Page 40 of Shattered Jewel

Unfortunately for all of us, Elara instead chose the couch in our private common room, closest to Cav’s door, and she spent most of the night on her phone talking to her friend and sorting out her mother.

I clear my throat, shifting position on the armchair opposite Kaspian to better accommodate my stiff cock. Now, the morning sun filters through stained glass windows as we gather in the common room.

Kaspian slouches in an armchair, nursing his wounded shoulder. Wilder splays on the couch, flipping through streaming services on the flat-screen TV above our fireplace.

And Elara’s curled up on the other side of the wide couch, the blankets she used overnight bunched around her legs. Her long hair is mussed from sleep but cascades down her shoulders, and her eyes—those damn eyes—seem to reflect the rainbow of light coming from the stained glass.

I itch to feel the softness of her skin the way Cav did, to trace the curves currently hidden by her leggings and an oversized sweatshirt.

Elara’s gaze lingers on the empty space between her and Wilder, a spot she seems to be wishing Cav were using, before she turns her rainbow eyes on me. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

The question jars me. I expected her to ask how Cav was doing or what the next steps were in finding the other half of the Heart, or updates on her brother’s killers.

So many subjects to cover, yet she chooses … me?

I shrug in answer. Memories of violent homes and punishing schools haunt my restless mind. It’s as if all those memories that elude me while awake manage to find me in terrifying detail through my dreams. Sleep is a luxury.

Kaspian straightens, grimacing. He grunts as he stands, his left arm reluctantly back in a sling.

I’m surprised he put it back on. Is it for Elara’s sake that he’s pretending to be a good boy, or is he using it as a distraction while he compiles all kinds of horrendous shit in his head to use against the Sovereigns?

My vote’s on the latter.

Kaspian pushes to his feet, stalking over to the bar and pouring himself a drink. The amber liquid sloshes against the sides of the glass as he knocks it back in one gulp.

Elara’s brows knit together, her lips parting as if to caution him against drinking first thing in the morning, but he prevents it by saying, “I’m off the pain pills. It makes me too vulnerable. So a shot of bourbon it is.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, asking her, “How did you sleep?”

Elara wraps her arms around her shins, curling her legs in close. “Okay.”

She didn’t choose Wilder. Or me. Nor did she sleep beside Cav or dare to knock on Kaspian’s door. She wanted to sleep out here, in our common room, perhaps embarrassed at how she revealed herself to us last night—or struggling with the implications of it.

If she thought we wanted her before…

Therefore, Wilder and I slept in here, too, both taking armchairs and watching Elara more than we chased sleep.

Elara shifts, the blankets falling away as she plants her feet on the floor. “I want to help with whatever you guys are doing today. Tell me what I need to do.”

My gaze rakes over her, from the wild tumble of her hair to the hard set of her jaw.

Even now, with everything at stake, I can’t ignore the obsession that churns in my gut at the sight of her.

Kaspian slams his glass down on the bar, the sound ricocheting through the room like the very gunshot that ravaged his shoulder. Elara jumps, likely remembering the same thing.

“You’ve done enough already,” Kaspian snarls with his back to us. “We don’t need your help.”

Yep, Kaspian is exceptionally unhappy about his current state.

Elara flinches as if he’d struck her, hurt flickering across her face before she smooths it away. She stands, squaring her shoulders as she faces him. “I’m not going anywhere. Didn’t last night show you anything? You need me. You wouldn’t have half the Heart if not for me. I’m a part of this now, whether you like it or not.”

Wilder whistles low under his breath, his gaze darting between them. I watch the scene unfold, tension crackling in the atmosphere, lightning readying to strike.

Kaspian’s hand flexes at his side, his fingers curling into a fist. For a moment, I think he might lash out, his anger is so palpable.

I rise from my armchair, my erection straining against my jeans. I cross the room in a few strides and take the bottle from Kaspian’s hand and pour him two more fingers. “You’re cranky. Drink.”

“I don’t need a fucking nursemaid?—”

---