window edged the taut skin stretching over a neat stack of abdominal muscles.
Why was I stunned to discover the boy had a six-pack? All lucionaga had abs.
“Amara?”
I jerked my gaze off his stomach.
“The gloves.”
I pulled them back off and dropped them into his open palm, careful not to graze his hand.
“Make a knife.”
Fear slinked up my spine.
As he slid the gloves into his waistband, he added, “As a precaution.” Was he trying to reassure me?
Swallowing, I touched my tattoo, hooking the threads. Unfortunately, I started trembling, and the threads snapped right back into my palm. I tried again. Failed again.
“Calm down.”
“I’m trying.” I tried again, and again, and again. At some point, I rolled my fingers into my palms and squeezed them until my nails bit into the dark whorls.
“Can I try something?” Remo asked.
I nodded warily.
He picked up my wrist from where it dangled at my side. “Open your palm.”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I did as he asked. He pressed calloused fingertips against the trapped dust. Was he trying to extricate it?
“I don’t think—” My dust seemed to rear in its tracks and pulse harder, wiping away my conviction and the end of my sentence. “It’s responding to you,” I whispered, stunned and worried that if I spoke any louder, it would scare off my dust. Not that dust was skittish, but maybe confiscated dust was . . .
Remo’s eyebrows dipped in concentration. Slowly, he raised his fingers. Considering how strongly my palm tingled, I expected to see golden ribbons unspool.
But I was wrong.
The air between our hands stayed still and dark.
16
Standards
“It was worth a try,” Remo sighed as he pulled his hand back to his side.
I slid my lower lip through my teeth, partly relieved my dust couldn’t be manipulated by another fae and partly confused as to why it was still swishing around in its tracks like a school of minnows. “It responded to your touch.”
“That wasn’t the dust, Amara.”
I cranked my head up so fast my neck cracked. “What else could it have been?”
His eyes glowed like faceted emeralds. “Your pulse.”
“My pulse? Why would my pulse respond to you? I’m not afraid of you.”
The corners of his lips ticked up.
“I’m not,” I said, stressing the not part.
“Well if it isn’t fear, then that leaves attraction.”
Like a wave, the blood drained from my face before flooding right back inside. “I’m definitely not attracted to you. I have standards.”
The intensity of his smile turned up. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” Blood still pounded in my veins, but for a completely different reason now.
He was still smiling. “And what are those standards of yours?”
“Kindness.”
“I’m kind.”
“Not to me you aren’t.”
I didn’t think his smile could get any wider, but it did.
“Humble.”
Still smirking, he folded his arms, which somehow made his chest appear broader.
“Not redheads.”
His smirk intensified.
“And not of Farrow descent.”
“So, just not me?” He dipped his chin into his neck, grin intact. “Aren’t you going to ask me about my standards?”
“I didn’t think you had any.”
His mouth unlatched, and he laughed, a deep throaty sound that made my already rapid pulse strike my neck harder.
I crossed my arms, matching his stance. “Fine. Tell me. What type of girl gets an invitation into your harem?”
He sobered up. “My harem?”
“Back in the Duciba, your grandfather mentioned you needed to break up with all your girlfriends.”
“Right.” Color crawled along the edge of his jaw. He rubbed his chin, as though trying to rub the blush out.
“So, Remo Farrow, what are your standards? Besides busty blondes.”
His head jerked back, and his hand fell away from his chin. “Busty blondes? What in Neverra are you talking about?”
“Lydia.” I wrinkled my nose at the memory of the waitress who’d all but thrown herself at Remo. “I think she drooled on my wine orb at our engagement revel.”
“Lydia’s a sweet girl, but nothing more.”
I racked my mind for other women I’d seen Remo out and about with but couldn’t come up with any. “Have you ever dated anyone?”
“Dating isn’t my style.”
“What is your style?”
“No strings—or Cauldron—attached.”
I bobbed my head. “Commitment-phobic, then?”
“It’s not a phobia; it’s a life choice.”
I bobbed my head some more, not in understanding. On the contrary, I didn’t understand his life choice at all. I’d always wanted what my parents had.
“Dating isn’t your style either, is it?”
I stopped nodding. “Why would you assume that?”
“Because I’ve never seen you out with the same guy twice. Well, besides your cousin, but you’re not dating him. Are you?”
“Um, yuck. And my not-dating isn’t by choice.”
He frowned.
“I’d like to