could see you…”
My hands wander down to his chest. “Be with you…”
When I reach the divot right at his collarbone, run my finger back and forth over it, he sucks in a deep breath. “Veda…” He glances over at me, eyes firm, but quickly losing some battle it appears he’s waging.
Bringing my hand down to find his, he clasps my fingers and I rest my head on his shoulder. “Thank you for the glass blessings at the Lunalette memorials … For hanging that photo—the full photo. I’m so happy to be back. I’m happy to be right here, in this moment, with you.”
He gazes down at me. “I’m happy you’re here too.”
“Are you, though?” I glance up at him. “You seem … conflicted.”
“You have no idea,” he breathes, gazing down at me, eyes no longer firm but very much wanting.
“I know more about that than I think you realize.” I lean up, place my lips against his because I want to.
I want to be held.
To be kissed.
To feel the warmth of his body against mine.
And, by his reaction, in this moment, he wants those same things.
For one gloriously blurry hour, I kiss Dorian on the floor of his cave. I memorize the warmth of his lips. The gentleness of his touch. I get to finally feel the ridges of his chest and the muscles that ripple down his stomach.
He holds me close to him and runs his fingers through my hair, pushing it away from my eyes.
I watch as the glow of the lamplight casts through the many glass trinkets on the shelves and cascades different-colored shimmers across the ceiling.
It’s perfectly lovely—the shimmering and the kissing. Mostly the kissing.
Eventually, Dorian and I wander back to my cave, share yet another cup of tea, talk late into the night, and then fall back asleep.
What feels like hours later, I’m awakened by an unsettling dream. Apparently moonroot doesn’t guarantee a full night’s restful sleep.
The image I thankfully tore myself awake from was of Nico being tortured underneath the light of the full moon. The executioner—Dorian—just thrust his sword into Nico’s heart and the sound … the horrible, painful, gut-twisting sound Nico made … The gurgling … The wrenching … The …
I lean to the side and immediately get to taste a teapot’s worth of moonroot. Again. But it’s not nearly as fun the second time. It isn’t until I’m cleaning it up, washing my mouth and face with fresh water, that I remember Dorian should be here. But he’s not.
When I look at my hourglass, I see it’s late. Apparently, moonroot does aid in sleep because it’s almost noon.
It’s safe to assume Dorian either had duty, something came up, or he regretted admitting so much to me last night and left hoping I wouldn’t remember or at least think it a dream.
I stop. Take a look around the room. More and more details of last night come bounding back accompanied by a slicing headache that cuts its way right between my eyes.
Definitely not a dream.
Glancing down at the empty teapot, the two cups, pen and ink and paper all strewn about, it’s as if we had a small, albeit rowdy, celebration here last night. But it’s when I spot several crumpled pieces of paper on the ground, that another, more distressing yet just as hazy memory surfaces.
No …
My eyes dart from corner to corner searching the cave. Where the hell is it?
“No, no, no…” He didn’t … I pick up the wool mat, shake out my clothes. He wouldn’t …
I scour the small space.
The letter I wrote Nico? It’s not here. And only one other person’s been in this cave.
I’m sure Dorian’s only messing with me. He wouldn’t find a way to get it to Nico, would he?
I sit, well, stumble more like it, onto the stump that serves as a chair or table, depending.
Resting my head in my hands, massaging my temples, when I look up to see the Sindaco’s “gift.” The spear and handkerchief. But before I can think too much on it, come up with a plan of how in the world I’m going to face him—because I must face him eventually—I notice a piece of paper tacked on the nail just inside my cave door that definitely wasn’t there last night.
Assuming it’s a note from Dorian, I’m disappointed to find it’s the furthest from it.
It’s a summons. I’m to meet with the Sindaco upon waking.
Of course, he didn’t write it or deliver it.
Of course, he expects me to