Page 61 of Wings of Ash & Flame
“I know—and that’s what worries me.” He interlaced his fingers behind his neck.
“This isn’t your problem.” Her shoulders slumped, suddenly exhausted. “I’ll figure this out on my own.”
“Always so stubborn.” He dragged a hand down his face. “This is bigger than both of us. We’re already stuck together—it makes sense to figure this out together. I’m not leaving any of this up to chance if it can affect me graduating.” He hesitated, then continued. “As you so love to point out, I am the Prince of House Aetheris, and with that comes access to information and knowledge. I have resources you don’t. There’s a better chance of finding answers if we work together.”
Alaire hesitated, weighing his words. Could he be reporting back to Dexter? Her usual instinct would be to leave him with a biting remark and handle it alone. But he did have a point.
She wasn’t in a position to turn down help—even from the prince.
“Fine,” she conceded.
“Fine.” He blew out a breath. “You have to be the most frustrating, headstrong, independent, and determined female I have ever met.”
Stupid fucking turquoise eyes.
She ignored the heat creeping into her cheeks. “Not sure if anyone’s ever told you this, prince, but your compliments are terrible.”
He peered down at her. “Noted. For the duration of our newly forged truce, do you think we can maintain some level of civility?”
“Unlikely.” Alaire snorted. Her pride refused to let him see how his words had tangled her emotions. Slowly, she uncrossed her arms, feeling as though she were shrugging off a piece of armor.
Dawson’s gaze moved deliberately, tracing the curve of her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, lingering on her lips before snapping back to meet hers.
Her throat suddenly felt as dry as the Scorched Marsh.
His hand shifted, barely a movement, but her pulse jumped.
She froze. Her breath caught somewhere between her ribs, every nerve ending on edge.
The whisper of his fingers against her knuckles was so faint it might’ve been a butterfly’s wing. But it sent a jolt through her, spreading warmth in its wake and stirring something deep within a part of her she guarded fiercely.
Then, in the center of her chest, she felt an indescribable pull—pushing, tipping her toward the celestial.
Dawson’s hand shot out, gripped her waist to steady her.
She tried to ignore it. But the longer she resisted, the more the pull ached and burned.
Taking a step in the opposite direction felt like walking against an unrelenting tide tugging her toward Beck.
What was happening?
Then the pull shifted, dragging her flush against Dawson.
Her fingers flexed at her sides as frustration swelled. Somehow, Alaire knew it was trying to tell her she needed Dawson. It was instinctive. Unexplainable. Undeniable.
You would force me to need his help, wouldn’t you?
Dawson’s gaze flicked between her and Beck, his head tilting slightly as he tried to piece together the situation. His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, waiting.
Alaire bit the inside of her cheek. She didn’t want to ask him for anything. But she couldn’t ignore the pull or what it wastrying to tell her. Finally, she exhaled sharply, shoving her pride aside.
“So… partner,” she began, the word dripping with reluctant sarcasm, “remember how you said you wanted to help? I need to cash in on that offer.”
His dark brows shot up, a flicker of intrigue and exasperation crossing his face. “Already?” His fingers tapped along the seams of his leathers. “Why am I not surprised? Alright, what do you need?”
Alaire crossed her arms, shifting her weight as if bracing herself. “I need you to fly me somewhere… I think.”
Dawson blinked. “Youwhat?” he asked incredulously. “Fly you? To where, exactly?”
