Page 58 of The Scribe (Irin Chronicles 1)

He cleared his throat. “You have so much to think about. So much to consider and learn. It’s not that I don’t want—”

“Are we here?” Rhys yelled from the back of the Range Rover. The door creaked open and he climbed out, unfolding his long legs from their cramped position. “Oh, Ava, love, do you need help with your bags?”

Malachi bristled. “I’ve got them, Rhys.”

“Good man.” His friend slapped him on the shoulder before he grabbed his own bag and hoisted it out.

Malachi saw some Irin walking through the old gates. An elderly scribe raised a hand and waved.

“Ms. Matheson?”

Ava stepped forward and held out her hand as Malachi and Rhys stopped to watch. Watch the old scribe take her hand delicately, then more confidently, his face breaking into a huge smile. Most of the Cappadocian scribes were older, having stopped their longevity spells after the Rending, but a few of the younger men gaped at Ava as Malachi and Rhys followed her into the scribe house with the luggage.

Rhys was still groggy. Sadly, he was also talking.

“She was pressed against me in the car, Malachi. Heaven, I’d forgotten what that felt like. Just to have the weight of a woman—”

“Really!” he burst out. “Just… shut up, Rhys.”

Thirty-three. There were thirty-three ways Malachi could kill him.

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