Page 45 of Bitten & Burned
“It does indeed,” Anton said slowly, his piercing gaze searching me for something.
“Look at me, little love.” His scrutiny was acute now, eyes delving into every nook and cranny he could see. He apparently didn’t find what he was looking for. Or, he was reluctant to admit he’d found what he expected.
He tutted softly, his hand coming up to cup my jaw, leaning slightly to get another angle. “When’s the last time Vael fed you?”
The way he said it wasn’t idle curiosity. It was a fault-finding mission, and the fault wasn’t mine.
“I…” I trailed off. “Vael doesn’t feed me. I’m not his pet.”
“Of course not, but when was the last time he offered something to you?”
“He hasn’t tonight, but I ate… this morning.”
Anton frowned, tilting his head. “That was nearly ten hours ago.”
I nodded.
“Well, that’s the problem. You’re starving,” Anton said. “Let me go find Vael. We’ll get something in that little belly of yours soon, not to worry.”
“He wants to start soon,” I said. “He was just going to get Dmitri. And Quil, I guess. If he’s coming.”
“He’s coming,” Cassian replied, as if he had something to do with that. I wouldn't doubt it. Not nearly as much as I in turn doubted Quil was arriving of his own accord.
Anton’s hand was still on my face, and I fought the urge to lean into his cool skin. It really was entirely too warm in here.
“You’re roasting,” he murmured. “Are you unwell? A little flare-up, perhaps?”
“I’m fine,” I said, shaking my head. “Really. Everything’s fine.”
“No…” he mused, looking up at Cassian. “Look at her.”
I felt Cassian’s gaze now, heavy and thick. “She does look decidedly… flushed…” He directed the next bit at me, “Are you feeling alright?”
“I’m fine,” I assured him. “Just a little… floaty. That’s all,” I let out a sound I’d intended for laughter, but I wasn’t sure if it landed that way. “Like the floor’s not quite solid.”
“Floaty,” Cassian repeated, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face.
I nodded. “Floaty.”
He made a sound, indeterminate in origin.
“Cassian?” Anton said, his voice low.
“I’m fine, Anton,” I repeated. “Just fine.”
He snorted. “Fine is never ‘just fine’, Rowena.”
“To me, it is. My baseline is lower than most people's. So fine is indeed, just fine with me.”
“If you say so.”
“Would the ritual fail if I weren’t fine?”
In the old texts, binding had been called a test of balance: body, blood, and spirit all aligned. With the sigil gnawing at me, balance felt like a fragile illusion.
“It wouldn’t fail, but it would be more than you could handle,” Anton replied.
“She has already bitten off more than she can chew.”
