Page 37 of Broken Star

It’s quickly evident that Cloaked Girl didn’t pack for an average road trip.

“That’s a lot of preparation for a mysterious girl who appeared out of nowhere,” I say, frowning as I reach in, brushing my fingers over an ancient-looking clay cup nestled among the supplies.

He picks up one of the daggers and tests its weight. “You prefer being unprepared?” he asks as he offers it to me handle first, as controlled as always. “Here. Since you enjoy stabbing me so much, you might as well have a backup.”

The memory slams into me, swift and merciless.

The slice of my blade cutting through his skin. The scent of his blood hitting the air—cold, metallic, and painfully tempting.

Even now, the phantom scent lingers, making my body react in ways I refuse to acknowledge.

And from the way he tilts his head, watching me with that quiet, unreadable intensity that makes me feel like he’s peeling back my defenses, he’s definitely noticing the insufferable way his comment affected me.

I glare at him and snatch the dagger, careful not to touch his skin.

“That issonot happening again,” I say, and he glances at my hands, sharp and assessing.

“You keep telling yourself that,” he replies with that infuriating edge to his voice that means he thinks he’s won.

Magic stirs inside me, making the wind shift and the waves crash harder.

I force myself to turn back to the supplies, but even when I don’t see him, I feel him.

And that’s what I hate the most.

He pulls out a small pouch, frowning slightly.“Barley and... honeycomb?” he says. “Hardly seems worth the trunk space.”

I lean in closer, inhaling when his scent hits me too fast, too hard. Winter and pine. The sharp, familiar bite of frost.

My pulse trips over itself. A reaction I can’t control, no matter how much I want to.

Why does he still smell the same? Why can’t my body forget the way it felt to press against him in the cold? Why can’t I just stop?—

“Sapphire?” His gaze narrows, and I feel his magic pressing closer, wrapping around me like a winter storm. “Are you okay?”

It’s a simple question. But the way he asks it makes my ribs feel like they’re caving in.

Like he already knows the answer. Like he actuallycaresabout the answer.

“I’m fine,” I say, forcing myself to look away and grab the next item in the trunk like my life depends on it.

His gaze lingers. He doesn’t believe me.

But he lets it go. For now.

“There’s a wineskin, too,” I say, willing my voice back to normal, even though it’s definitely shaking a bit. “With instructions to not drink it.”

“Because we always follow instructions so well,” he replies, looking away from me to study the dark liquid inside.

I narrow my eyes at him.

Focus. Just focus.

“The note says it’s ‘for those who no longer taste,’” I read, clenching my fists so hard my nails dig into my skin. “Which sounds ominous enough that I’d rather not test it.”

“Your self-preservation instincts are improving. I’m almost proud,” he says, setting down the wineskin and pulling out an herb wrapped in cloth. “Although this one’s apparently for me to eat before reaching the island.”

I cross my arms. “Lucky you. Maybe it’s poison.”

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