Page 192 of Lana Pecherczyk
“I didn’t give it to her. Didn’t feel right. She was…”
His stomach knotted at the memory of how he’d left Blake stretched across their bed—sweat-dampened hair in wild tangles, lips swollen from his kisses and cock. After returning from the springs, they’d fucked again. On the bed. Against the table. On the Well-damned floor. Her need for him raged until he mentioned leaving. Then her gaze kind of … emptied. She tracked his every movement as he dressed, never wavering even as she’d padded to the table and reached for her sketching tools.
He told her to stay in bed and rest, but she scoffed, inked nib already scratching across parchment.
“I need to finish these drawings before I forget. And I want to write down everything she said.”
“Who?”
“The Donna.”
The fact that Blake had sat nude at the table hadn’t seemed to register in her mind. After placing a plate of cheese and bread beside her, he’d tucked her tangled hair behind her ear. Her skin burned against his fingertips. When he’d questioned if she felt ill, she’d simply asked him to prop the door open for cooler air.
Regardless, he attempted to heal her, but sensed no illness. If the Donna’s bat-shit paste still affected her, wouldn’t he havedetected a toxin? When she finally met his gaze, he searched her eyes and asked what was wrong.
Tell me I’m your whole world. Tell me I belong here.
Her unspoken plea had echoed through their bond. That grimy sense of grave ash he once associated with her ex slithered into him through their connection. Because of him.
I love you,he’d wanted to say. But saying the words aloud would paint a target on her back. Saying them meant promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. Not until he dealt with Cloud. Not until he secured their future.
He’d kissed her instead—a simple, lingering press of lips. He fussed over her comfort, cleaned up debris from his fight with Cloud, righted the toppled eucalyptus, and reshaped the dented wall.
Actions, not words. But her eyes begged for both.
The weight of her need still pressed against his chest.
He’d tell her when the moment was right, when he’d secured the cryptex, helped Cloud overcome his grief, and they understood what was happening to Blake’s body. He owed her the perfect moment, and he wanted to do it right.
“And?” Ash prompted.
“Something’s off with her body,” he admitted. “I think she’s unwell.”
“As in … a mortal affliction?”
“You don’t think that’s what the Donna?—”
“Fuck off.” Ash froze mid-step, eyes boring into River’s.
“What?”
“Nothing out of the Donna’s twisted mouth is straightforward. I just meant a human illness.”
A crow’s harsh warning call pierced the night, silencing them. The path ahead appeared to end abruptly. Each Guardian snapped out their wings, sure to display the glossy feathers.
The crow cawed once. An acknowledgment—entrance accepted.
River tugged his hood lower, concealing his face. He glanced at Ash and mumbled, “You brought the item to trade, right?”
“I brought something.”
Chapter
Sixty
River and Ash passed the crow sentinel, and the forest became unnaturally quiet. They’d entered the warded area that blocked sound, even the rustling wind. Another few steps and sound returned. Ordinary underbrush and trees transformed into the Shadow Market. Glamours fell away to expose crude wooden structures festooned with hanging wares. Patrons moved with furtive purpose, wings bound tightly to avoid recognition, or shifted away altogether.
UV markings glowed along the tent flaps, indicating which forbidden goods waited inside. Cages containing contraband hung from branches—metal trinkets, old-world technology, and preserved specimens pulsing with mana.
