Page 95 of Bound
Chapter 34
Amoret
The storm is tumultuous, heavy. I huddle deeper upon myself and stare out over the lake to the distant line of trees. Under the cover of the pavilion, I can barely see beyond the long, gabled roof. The manor is back the way I came, its stone walls hidden by a row of manicured shrubs and an overgrown rose bush. But out here, the haze of rain is the only sound. Great, sheeting downpours that mimic the tears cascading down my cheeks.
I wipe at my damp chin. “Damn you, Jarrah,” I mutter to no one. It is only the storm and myself. Inside and out.
But the stain of his betrayal has hardened my heart.
I trusted him. We all did. He was more than the captain to our men, he was a friend. A brother.
The anger builds inside me, so hot. So raw.
I spin, shoving outward with the fire under my skin.
Lilac flames careen from my palms, their beauty tempered by my hate for them. The roiling mass hits the rain and sputters, making steam billow in a cloud.
“Amoret?” Gage’s distant call makes the fire die in a blink.
I shuffle deeper into the shadows of the pavilion in the hopes he won’t see me.
His steps splash in nearby puddles and his large frame appears in the opening at the end of the stone walk. He turns this way and that, white hair sodden and clinging to his cheek, jaw. Neck.
If he is bothered by the storm, he does not show it.
“Amoret?” he calls again. His deep voice sends a shiver through me. Now that he has whispered in my ear, I will never be able to hear his husky timbre without my body reacting.
“Damn it, Amoret.” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the wet strands back. “Where are you?” The question is gruff but soft, like he spoke it to himself.
He turns and leans against one of the stone columns holding the roof aloft. One moonlit hand scrubs at the water on his face. The strong line of his neck.
He pulls a slim metal case out of his pocket and clicks it open.
I watch as he stares into it, like it holds all the answers he seeks. And perhaps ones he doesn’t.
Scrubbing off his hand on his shirt, he pulls a hand-rolled smoke from the case, shuts it, and pushes it back into his pocket.
The brown cigar is lit with a snap of his long fingers. He inhales and the cloud of smoke rises into the rafters. The wind buffets it, sending chocolate and spice through the air toward me.
Black Dream.
I press from the shadows. “Does it help?”
He startles, standing up straight and looking at me with something like horror twisting his strong features. He slides his hand behind his back. “Amoret.”
“I know you smoke, Gage. I smelled it the first night we came here. And I know what it is. Don’t hide it.”
His sigh is heavy. “No. No, it doesn’t help.” He lets his hand rest on his thigh, his dark emerald eyes focused on the glowing red tip of his smoke. “It did for a long time. Now? Now it just seems to bandage everything. To dull it. But never for long.”
“Then why still do it?”
He raises his gaze to mine. “I don’t know. Habit?” In that moment, he looks like a lost little boy. There is so much shadow behind his eyes. So many hard things.
I want to hold him to me. To comfort him.
I stay where I am and don’t respond.
He takes a long look at his smoke and tosses it into the rain. It lands in a deep puddle and snuffs out with a barely audible hiss. “CSI has the soil on Jarrah’s clothes narrowed down to three different locales. I was coming to let you know.”
