Page 51 of The Storm of the Empire

“How would you know they noticed?” I snapped, hating that he was right and not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

“Because I can read the room.”

“It’s not some magic power. How could you tell?” I’m sure he was right, but how? How did he know me so well? How had he gotten so far under my skin?

“I’m not sure you want to know.” He turned away, looking out the window.

“Luka…” I sat up and reached across the bed, finding his hand in the dimly lit room. “I do want to know.”

“It’s not a happy story. I spent my entire life having to make sure I anticipated the reactions of every fae around me. Their moods, their reactions. The way I could look wrong, and they’d snap. I had to assimilate myself into situations with elders where I didn’t know what I was doing. With priests, with traders. I went from caring for and delivering crops to a world of complete unknown when my village was burned to the ground. I had to pull myself out of those ashes alone if I had any chance of surviving. So I’d appreciate you not calling my ability to read the room for survival magic. It’s not magic or a talent or a special gift. It’s a survival technique I worked hard to learn it, and I have the scars to prove it.” His breaths came in jagged gasps.

He'd left me speechless. What could I even say to that?

“I’m sorry I disturbed you.” He tried to stand again, but I grabbed his arm.

“Please stay.”

He eased himself back down. “Why?”

“Because I want you here.”

He scooted back on the bed until his back hit the wall.

I flipped around to sit next to him, laying my head on his shoulder. “I can’t imagine what a childhood like that would be like.”

“Most fae can’t.” He leaned his head against mine, sliding our hands together.

I cherished the comfort. “Is that where the scars on your back came from?”

“Some of them. I’ve lost track of where others came from.”

“Do you not like to talk about it?” I asked, not wanting to press if it was going to upset him.

“I don’t mind. They are a part of me as much as anything else.” He rubbed his thumb over mine, and I wished I could read his thoughts.

“What about the ones on your forearms?”

“Those are a lot less sinister. Rope, mostly, funny enough.”

“Rope can do that?”

“When you’re hit with them, they can, and the ones on ships can too, which is how I got these.” He reached across me for my other hand, guiding it to the top of his forearm to trace over the marks. “The ropes can burn, and then the salt from the sea makes them heal like this.”

“How long did you sail for?” The more I learned about him, the more I realized I didn’t know.

“A year.” There was a hesitation to his words.

“Did you like it?”

“Parts of it.”

“What aren’t you saying?” I demanded and instantly felt bad. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“Why do you want to know so bad?” His voice turned playful.

I scoffed. “You are?—“

“Yes, Goddess?”

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