Page 57 of Bound
Nothing.
I dart to the hill and jump. My boots have no trouble finding purchase in the embankment. I seat my heels into the shifting red clay and sand and clamor up.
The field is wide, framed by trees far in the distance. There is no stalk of grain or soy. Just tall grass and a large tree situated in the center of the field.
Arms clasped around the barrel trunk, Amoret is visible in the shadows it casts, her golden hair unbound and blowing in the late summer breeze.
I stalk through the reeds. They slap at my jeans, leaving tufts of seed pods and too thin blades in the denim.
She does not look up as I near. Though her body shakes, she does not seem to have any tears left in her.
For which I am grateful.
Neither Lilah, Nisha, or Raina, Markus’ consort, cry often. And I am not the one tasked with soothing them. My head cocks.
Perhaps that is why Amoret cries more. Because I am not comforting her right.
But I have so little experience with emotion. It has never done me any good with my fire. I have worked tirelessly to get rid of mine, and now Amoret’s emotions seem almost too raw in comparison.
They kidnapped her brother, idiot, I chide myself.Of course she’s emotional.
And you accused his oldest friend of being the one to take him.
My sigh is heavy. “Amoret?” Her head raises, but she doesn’t look at me. “Amoret, I’m sorry about what I said.”
“Are you?” she asks coolly.
I stare at her. “What?”
She turns in front of the tree. Her hair is wild, disheveled. And pressed to the rich bark, she looks like a nymph. Or a dryad. But her anger is all haughty Aos Sí.
“Have you lived so long among the humans that you have forgotten compassion? Love? Kindness?” She pushes from the tree and prowls toward me, a lioness in the tall grass. “Jarrah is my friend. And for you to accuse him of such …” She seems to cast about for an appropriate word, “heinousthings is not Fae.”
My lips peel back. “I have been away from the Sith for twenty years. But I promise I have not forgotten what it means to be Fae. To live in a world of intrigue and arrogant superiority. The slightest tilt to your head or well meaning flick of your eyes can cause the court to dissolve into chaos.” With every word, I take a step toward her. She does not budge. “I remember the politics, the scraping and pleading. I remember the hate and the anger every single damn one of you had for those not part of the White Tower. So no, Amoret. I have not forgotten what it means to be Fae.”
Her triple toned irises track over my face. “Is that why you left?”
The question jerks me back. I turn away as the memory of that day rears up to slap me down. To strip away every ounce of my self-control.
“Is it?” she demands as she appears in my peripheral. “Did you leave the Sith because of the intrigue?”
“Does it matter?” I snap. She stares at me. I run a hand through my hair, my fingers hindered by my plait. Not for the first time, I wonder why I keep it. After so many years, I have no reason to keep the infernal strands so long. I could chop it off with Horan’s sword and be done with it. Give up the last thing besides my magick marking me as Aos Sí.
“The court is twisted in places,” she murmurs. “I know that. But Jarrah is not part of it. Neither is Branwen. Or Cusnu or Renvi.” She crosses her arms as the wind picks up. “They are my family. Like Wena. Sila. Like Tanner and Ruin are part of yours.”
I glance over at her.
She takes the last step, her small fingers gripping my arm. “But Jarrah has the knowledge to work the magick marked on Liam’s body.” My eyes scour over her upturned face. “I admit that.”
Turning so I can see her better, her hand slides to cup the muscle at the back of my arm. That one caress makes my eyes pulse, and I wish I had not left my sunglasses in the damn car.
“I don’t know Jarrah. Not like I used to,” I admit. “But I want to get the lords back as much as you do, Amoret. And that means looking at this from every angle. It means seeing the bad in all those involved until we find the one responsible.”
Her thumb slides up and down over my skin. My focus snaps to it like a shark on the scent of blood. “And me? Do you have to see the worst in me?” she asks.
Jolted by her words, or perhaps her tone, I can only gaze into her eyes. “There is not an evil bone in you, Amoret,” I breathe as her thumb continues its idle pass.
One corner of her mouth quirks. “Really?”
