Page 65 of Dare

Regardless. How I would love to make the beast pay for her insolence. The problem was, a physician did not get personal—a violation I’d been predisposed to enact since Autumn’s dungeon. That, among a dozen other impulsive fuck-ups I could not justify.

I flicked those thoughts away. Done and over.

Where the hell was I?

I paused, my eyes scrolling across a series of cave tunnels. Absently, I had ventured farther beneath the ruins. My spine tightened as I regarded the configuration of illuminated labradorite cavities. Paying attention to where I was going would bloody help.

The breeze pushing through did wonders for my calf, relieving me enough that I conducted a search, heeding landmarks to retrace my steps. Pointless. Useless. The frustration amounted to a pathetic conclusion. I was lost.

Out of nowhere, a perky finger tapped my shoulder. My lips thinned. I did not, did not, did not turn around.

Not immediately. But when I did, my gaze landed on the beast leaning casually against the wall. “Aww,” she cooed. “Need help?”

“No,” I grumbled.

“So you didn’t go astray? Fall between the cracks?” She gave my frame a once-over. “Not that you’d fit.”

“This may come as a surprise, but when you fired that rock, you missed. My brain is intact.”

“If you say so.” She crooked her middle digit, in a beckoning gesture. “Want to see what else I found?”

Bragger. Sand drifter.

I made sure to walk beside the woman instead of trailing the fluttering hemline of that goddamn chemise. We ascended to the ground level, then crossed into one of the colonnade halls off the vestibule. Up a flight of crisscrossing steps, we hiked seven levels to an uppermost point and emerged onto the ruins’ peak.

A cupola umbrellaed above the roof, the structure enmeshed in hibiscus flowers and ensconced in the treetops. Despite the surrounding canopy, this strategic location provided a three-hundred and sixty degree view, including panoramic fragments of the ocean and its numerous coves.

Like a watch tower, the cupola overlooked any incoming ships. Yet the platform remained shielded from intruders. Whoever built this monument had known how to stay hidden.

The beast had left the grotto to explore. She had located this perk.

I smothered my pride and gave her a quick nod. Her lips crooked, relishing the moment. Though, at least she didn’t rub it in.

Over the next two hours, we investigated the ruins. The dining hall consisted of vaulted ceilings, a mammoth fireplace, a chipped stone table, and twelve chairs covered in greenery that resembled coriander leaves. Numerous sleeping quarters contained twine-constructed beds and pillows speckled with mildew. One room housed a single-tiered fountain that shifted colors for no discernible reason. Yet the water was chilled and drinkable, fresher than a glacier stream, and easily accessible compared to the grotto, which must have been a communal bathing room.

The beast discovered a cellar containing textiles—vestments, pants, shirts, and dresses tailored from silk, linen, muslin, and elements such as water itself. Boots, sandals, beads, ropes, and feather sacks appeared to be in pristine condition.

Another crypt had been used as an armory. Saws, blades, arrows, pickaxes. Their archaic shapes could have been featured in a Winter museum exhibit. Many were dull, though a whetstone would resolve that.

“Enchantment,” the beast marveled, drawing her fingers over the walls, which emitted a subtle glint. “History tells us how the Summer ancients built their chambers and cellars and crypts out of a rare type of sand that hardened like stone.”

I nodded while running my thumb along the curved edge of a sickle. “That allowed them to preserve objects. I have read of such practices from historic times, though I’ve never seen the like.”

“No one living today would. Tragically, that special sand no longer exists. Over the ages, it was carried away by the wind, maybe because the wind decided it was time for other types of sand to thrive.”

Unable to resist, I engrossed myself in her flushed profile and sparkling irises. Worship did attractive things to those eyes. “You believe nature has a soul.”

“Everyone does.” The beast glanced sideways at me, her fingers lingering on the wall. “It’s not exactly a new discovery, what with Spring’s Wildflower Forest being notorious for inspiring recklessness in its visitors. Not to mention Autumn’s Lost Treehouses being the birthplace of fairytales, in all their dark and alluring ways. People saying that particular enclave chooses who it welcomes past its borders, just like The Phantom Wild. Nature has spirit and a will. Isn’t that why we keep faith in the Seasons? They’re the deities of this world.”

“Technically.”

“Technically?” She swerved my way. “What do you believe then, Prince of Science?”

“I believe the Seasons have power, but they do not have a mind,” I answered. “Neither a will, nor a conscience. They’re an omnipotent system—a complex network of laws. That said, I’m aware my theology doesn’t align with the majority.”

“What about all these tales of nature welcoming only select visitors into their realms or affecting certain people in special ways?”

“Chemical, biological, and physiological reactions,” I defended. “Nature isn’t a fucking circus act. As for the rest, just because scientific reasons haven’t been discovered yet, that hardly means they don’t exist.”

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