Page 132 of Wings of Ash & Flame
Oh, I am so screwed.
Thirty-Two
Dawson led her further into the Hollow of Echoes. The forest was bigger than she’d imagined.
Solflara and Beck had finally gone off to hunt, leaving her and Dawson alone. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that.
He stopped at a clearing that looked identical to their earlier training spot. Alaire opened her mouth to object but closed it again. The goal was to get through whatever other training Dawson had in store and that was all.
He insisted on setting up camp alone, assuring her she’d only get in the way. His movements were efficient, practiced, as if he’d done this plenty of times before. The fire crackled softly while shadows flickered across the clearing. Alaire tipped her head back. The sky had deepened to indigo, scattered with stars.
Somehow, they still managed to take her breath away.
Breaking the silence, she finally asked, “So, what’s the plan?”
“We’ll rest here for a few hours tonight. At dawn, we’ll continue training.” Dawson didn’t look up from his task.
“And what does that training involve?” Alaire stuck out her tongue at him, though he couldn’t see it. “Can I look forward to being knocked on my ass?”
Setting down his pack, he began unrolling his bedroll. “If that’s what it takes. Here.” He tossed another bedroll to her.
“Thanks. This still isn’t as great as the mattress back in my room.”
“We’ll make our rounds there too. Don’t worry.”
Her eyes widened.
He gave her a heated stare.
Oh.
She unrolled her bedroll with shaky fingers.No way am I getting a wink of sleep tonight. Not with him this close.
He leaned against his pack, legs stretched out toward the fire, a groan escaping as he lifted his arms—just enough to reveal a slice of olive-toned stomach.
Alaire fixed her gaze on the flames, anything to keep from staring at him.
“Tell me about home,” he said.
“Which one?”
“Both.”
“Cielore was never my home…” Alaire’s voice wavered. “The last real thing I remember from childhood was waking up in an orphanage with no memory of how I got there. A stranger left me there, saying my parents had died in a fire—that they’d sacrificed themselves to get me out.” She forced herself to continue, trying not to dwell on the aftershocks that still rippled through her. “The only other information they were given was my name, Alaire Aerendyl, and that someone would be back for me.”
Her voice grew small. “I waited eight years. No one ever came.”
She twirled a stray lock of light-brown hair around her finger, unsure how much she wanted to share. “There isn’t much I remember about Aurelia. Just pieces. Bits of love I can almost feel but can’t quite reach.”
She smiled at the few memories she had. The rest remained out of reach. Still, she treasured the brief flashbacks—her mother’s melodic voice, her father’s scent.
“I’m sorry, Alaire. For what it’s worth—and I know it’s not much—they sounded like wonderful people.”
“Your turn, tell me about your home,” she countered, not ready to dig deeper into Dawson’s unexpected show of empathy.
He laced his fingers behind his head and tipped his face back to the stars, exposing the column of his throat.
Throats should not be attractive, but somehow his was.
