Page 90 of Lana Pecherczyk
He was dead to the world despite the caravan’s jostling.
Blake quickly finger-combed her tangled hair.
Maybe they’d both drunk too much moonshine last night, except … she frowned, trying to recall seeing River out of his Guardian uniform. Surely, she’d remember that. After the way he’d kissed her, seeing what he looked like under that leather was all she’d thought about.
Nothing. Blank space where memories should be.
Something was very wrong with this situation.
They were likely on their way to the Great Murder, but she needed to know for sure. She reached for his shoulder but hesitated. He looked peaceful. Vulnerable. Kind of adorable. No darkness burned behind that wicked smile—just a beautiful man with rosy cheeks and impossibly long eyelashes that seemed to sparkle a little in the shaft of sunlight.
The last time she saw him sleep, he’d woken at the tiniest sound, but the van’s rocking and light in his eyes didn’t wake him. Perhaps this moonshine hangover had gifted her a rare opportunity to study her mate unguarded.
A paper-thin fractal scar spiderwebbed across his face like a drunken snowflake. Previously, she’d only noticed the thickest one near his cheekbone, almost invisible. Now she saw tiny fissures spreading to his upper lip.
Blake brushed her thumb across his skin but felt no raised flesh. Ada had healed him well. It was strange she couldn’t do the same with his feathers when his hair and flesh had regrown. Perhaps wing follicles differed from hair follicles. Then again, internal scars often lingered longest.
She settled beside him and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear.
More fine scars.
Muscles rippling, River snapped awake and seized her wrists. “Moonshine!”
Blake shrieked.
“What happened?” His gaze darted around the caravan. “Why are you screaming?”
“You shouted in me face!”
“I did?”
“And you’re hurting me.”
Wide eyes dipped to where he gripped her wrists.
“Oh.” His hold loosened, but he failed to release her. Probably because his attention had diverted to her strappy top, specifically, what it struggled to contain. Hot, male appreciation darkened his eyes and deepened his voice. “Oh.”
“They gave me this to wear.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he mumbled. Then frowned. “Wait.” His gaze snapped up to hers. “I feel like I’d have remembered seeing you wearing this last night because you look—” He cleared his throat. Blushed. Swallowed hard. “You lookreallygood.”
“That’s exactly what I thought!” She looked at his open shirt, at flashes of tattoos and hardened abdominal muscles. “About you, I mean. When I saw you after I woke up. I don’t remember anything after getting dressed.”
“Fucking moonshine!” He slapped his palm over his face and flopped back with a groan.
For a long moment, silence reigned. Eventually, the rhythmic crunching of rocks, lazy clip-clopping, and gentle cabin rocking soothed them. River’s fingers drummed against his face.
“You know what’s weird?” Blake said. “I feel pretty good for someone who drank herself blind.”
His fingers split to reveal one eye. “You’re blind now?”
“No,” she laughed out. “It’s an old world saying. Maybe just Australian. It means we drank so much we blacked out.”
He relaxed but pushed up on his elbows, glaring past her at the van’s interior.
“We didn’t drink too much,” he said flatly. “We were drugged.”
“Get fucked!” She shoved him in the chest. “By who?”
