Page 95 of The Last One
His eyes turn silky-soft. “I do.”
“Then come sit. Tell me something thrilling that happened to you today. How was herb and plant collecting?”
“Veril wasn’t impressed.” Jadon eases onto the bed beside me, and he tells me that Olivia mistook oleander for summer shiso. “The old man was so mad, he turned every color possible. He told her she would have killed you immediately. And that’s before he saw that she’d found jimson weed. She thought they were morning glory.”
“Were morning glories on the list Veril gave you?”
“No. She said she saw me picking flowers and she wanted to pick flowers, too, because the cottage was just too dark and she wanted to pretty up the sitting room.”
I belt out a laugh.
Jadon does, too. “Veril nearly tossed her and the plant out. The plant is so dangerous that you shouldn’t even inhale it outside.”
I point to the wildflowers in the vase he set on the dresser. “Those are?”
“Jimson weed and oleander.”
I snort a laugh. It feels good—like I’m lighter.
He snickers. “Nah. Those are daisies and sweet pea.”
“And they’re beautiful, thank you. Please tell me you found my amulet.”
He shakes his head. “I looked again. Retraced our steps and everything.”
I deflate a little. “Oh no.”
“There’s still time,” he says, tugging one of my curls.
“If you say so.”
“I say so.”
The tea tastes like oranges and ginger and, yes, rum. I inhale a deep whiff of steam. The scent loosens my lungs some, but the pain in my leg and hip throbs. The coolness of the eucalyptus in Veril’s salve has tempered the pain.
Jadon glances at the door. “I’m already on Veril’s hate list, and you need your rest. If I stay, we’ll talk and you won’t rest, which means that you’re not gaining your strength, which means we’ll be here longer. So sleep, please.”
“Alone?” I want someone to share my raggedy web.Him. I yearn to be connected to someone.Him. To be touched instead of torn. To be touched not because I need to be nursed but touched because I want what I want.
Jadon rubs his neck with one hand and squeezes the bridge of his nose with the other.
“You look miserable.” My voice is raspy. “Am I making you miserable?”
He briefly clenches his jaw until his mouth softens, surrendering. “Absolutely.”
“Too bad.” I smile. My gaze flits from his eyes to his lips, then down to his rewrapped hand. “Good thing I know how to turn your frown upside down.”
“Yeah?”
I reach out to touch his hand. I spread my fingers across his skin, enjoying the story of his hands, rough from ironwork and battle.
The silence between us is taut, ready to snap.
My fingers drift from his hand to his cheek, and there is a different story here. The bristle of days-old stubble. The lift of his smile. This is the touch I want. One that causes that familiar fire to build in my belly, the fire that burns whenever he’s around.
“Drink more tea,” he says. “At least I can tell him I made you do that.”
“Yep.” I sip more tea, and its magic slithers through my body. I purr and sink farther into the pillows.
