Page 89 of A Storm of Fire and Ash
That’s when I turned back. Her mother.
I laid Elara down near a shed and hid her under my magic. I ran back to her house quickly. Her mother’s dead body lay motionless. The fire was hungry—ruthless. It would have devoured her completely if I hadn’t acted. I knelt and pushed both palms to the earth. The air obeyed me. It always did. I grabbed her mother’s body and carried her outand ran back to where I left Elara. I placed her mother behind the barn and shielded her with a bubble of air and magic, so no one would stumble upon her. Once Elara was safe in my room, I would come back and bury her in the wildflower field.
Elara would need that. A place to go. A grave to stand over. Someone to say goodbye to properly when she was ready.
When I got back to my room, I placed Elara on my bed. I dropped to my knees beside her. I wanted to hold her longer. Wrap myself around her. Sheild her from everything.
But I couldn’t.
Eryndor and the Prince walked in, and I told them everything. Well, I left out the bits and pieces about Elara’s magic, as that little twat would probably tell his Mommy and Daddy what Elara is.
Once they left, I knelt beside her one last time. She lay sleeping. She looked peaceful. Her magic took all of her energy, and I knew she would be asleep for a few days. That’s what happened when Royal Fae received their magic for the first time if they weren’t born with it.
I moved her hair from her face and traced my thumb over her pouty lips. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’ll be right back. I swear it.” I pressed my lips to her temple.
I knew what she was to me. I knew the second I saw her mismatched eyes. The goddess whispered to me many, many, many years ago,“Two flames in one soul—fire and ice shall bind your fate, a woman born of Fae—will be your destined mate.”
She had her fun with other men. But now, she was mine.
Mine.
Not in the way men claim women like trophies or territory.She was mine the way stars belong to the night sky.
The way fire belongs to flame.
The way I had never belonged to anyone—untilher.
And I would protect her. Even if it meant destroying everything my fatherhad built to the ground.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I reached for him before I even opened my eyes and knew what I was doing. My fingers found nothing but cool sheets and empty space. The other side of the bed was cold.
Of course he wasn’t here. Still, I felt disappointed.
A quiet breath slipped from my lips as I blinked up at the ceiling. The ache in my chest told me I’d secretly hoped he would have come back last night and crawled into bed.Foolish. I tucked that feeling away before it could settle too deep.
Pulling the covers around me, I tried not to replay last night—but I did. The moment I’d stood up from the tub, water running down my skin, I felt his eyes on me. Gods, the way he’d looked at me—like I was something burning and beautiful, something dangerous and worth touching anyway. His gaze had made my breath catch, and it had stayed on my skin long after he left.
No one has ever looked at me that way.
But it didn’t matter. He didn’t stay. That look didn’t mean anything.
With a sigh, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood. The air was sharp and cold against my bare arms. I dressed quickly—pulled on a soft tunic, worn trousers, my leather breastplate, and my scuffed old boots. They weren’t elegant, but they felt like me.
My hair was a wild mess, tangled from sleep and restless dreams. I stood in front of the mirror and quickly braided it down my back, fingers moving without thought.The motion steadied me. Gave me something to do with my hands while my heart was still quietly cracking.
Once I was ready, I stepped into the corridor, boots echoing softly on the stone. The scent of bread and smoke led me toward the kitchens, a welcomed distraction.
Warmth hit me the moment I stepped through the doorway—along with a flurry of noise.
Cendrin was at the hearth, stirring something in a pot bigger than my chest, humming off-key as usual. His belly jiggled with every movement, and sweat already glistened on his red cheeks despite the early hour. His thick accent rumbled through the room as he barked at no one in particular, a sound that somehow always made me feel like everything was going to be alright. Across from him, Sivka worked in silence, rolling dough into perfect rounds. She was tall, poised, her tawny skin glowed in the firelight. Her straight black hair was pulled back tightly, and her almond-shaped eyes didn’t lift from her task once. Every move she made looked deliberate, elegant. Yara was already in mid-conversation, short and glowing with energy as she tossed flour-dusted hands through the air. Her dark brown skin was speckled with flecks of dough, and her wide grin tugged one from me as well. She and Cendrin always had this way of hovering near each other—always soft glances and shared laughs, though neither said anything about it.
Then I saw her.
Kalista.
I slowed without meaning to. She stood near Yara, arms crossed over her chest, her bruised eyes flicked toward me.
