Page 56 of Bound
I look over, almost surprised to find my arm across her torso. I cinch my palm into the pink fabric of her dress, raising the hem over the soft skin of her thighs.
Small but strong fingers wind in mine, releasing my hold on her gown.
Amoret lowers our hands to her leg, closer and closer to the smooth expanse of her thigh. So petite, but shapely. There is a faint hint of lean muscle under her skin. But there are no cars under the Hill. You walk or run everywhere.
The back of my hand brushes her leg and a jolt of desire slams into me, filling my length until it aches.
I pull from her hold and grip the steering wheel. It creaks. Gingerly placing my foot back on the gas, the car ahead of us takes a left and I keep us straight on the old country road.
“So Jarrah’s mother was a weaver?” I ask. There is an edge of need in my voice, making my tone gruffer than I intend.
If Amoret notices, she says nothing. She stays silent for several long minutes.
“She created some of the warding. The one that draws on the collective of the Sith to keep the doors to the Labyrinth closed.”
It has been many years since I heard of the dark prison beneath the Black Tower.
The worst of the worst the Fae have to offer here in the states found themselves inside its dank walls. And those that go in, never come out.
“And Jarrah is familiar with that kind of magick?”
I can feel her eyes on the side of my face. “Yes. Why?”
It takes all my focus to keep from shifting under her scrutiny, like a wee lad in trouble for stealing an extra tart before dinner. “Could he have taken the others?”
Her gasp makes my teeth grind. “No,” she says, vehement. “Jarrah has been Bran’s oldest friend since they were boys. He volunteered as Bran’s captain. He was not placed in the role.” The distress in her tone is livid. “He swore fealty to both of us. He would—”
“Okay, Amoret,” I snap. It is more than her assurances. It’s the way she defends him. So fiercely. “Okay.”
The weight of her anger remains fixed on me. “Stop the car.”
I glance down at her. “What?”
“Stop the car. I want out,” she demands. It’s the first real hint of her superiority that she has used with me.
And it’s such a shock, I pull the car off the road onto the shoulder.
She fumbles with the door. Yanking and twisting at every implement, I wait for the car to explode just from her wrath. I reach across her body and pull in on the handle with a sigh. The door pops open. Her little frame climbs from the SUV and starts up the short hill to a wide field visible through the window.
“Amoret,” I call, exasperated.
She ignores me and continues climbing, her heels digging deep into the tall grass until she has to wrench each foot free.
I climb from the car and close the door. “Amoret, come on.”
Ignoring me, she continues stomping her way up the hill. I fold my arms and press one foot to the front bumper and lean back. At the edge of the field, she lets out an angry expletive and rips the strappy shoes from her feet.
My lips quirk despite the situation.
Then she takes off barefoot at a run into the field.
Eyes widening, I right myself as her frame fades from my line of sight. “Amoret,” I bellow.
No answer. Even her golden hair no longer glints in the sun.
My heart pounds deep into my ribs, the rapid thump making my chest hurt.
I scan the horizon, searching. “Amoret?”
