Soul of Flame (Imdalind Series #4)(75)

I could feel that his body was somehow warmer than it had been before. Everything felt heavier just knowing he had heard what Wyn had said. At his touch, my heart rate sped to match the quick drum that lay in Ilyan’s chest. I almost cringed at the nervous pressure that had built up inside of him, a shadow of it moving into me as his skin slid against mine. I let my magic flow into him, desperate to hear even a shadow of what he had heard—what he had thought—only to be met by a dark wall of Ilyan’s magic.

He had blocked me out.

I could feel his mind, his emotion. I knew they were there, but what he was thinking—what he was guarding—was kept from me.

Ilyan? I sent to him in my panic. He didn’t so much as look at me. He only leaned down and grabbed the last full glass, his eyes focused on the blood-colored liquid in his hands.

“Where did you find the Slivovica?” he asked as his hand tightened around mine. “I had thought we had used the last before we burned the manor in Brno.”

I kept my eyes on him as he spoke, waiting for him to look down at me as he always did, but he stayed straight and tall, his frame elongated against me until I felt shorter than I knew I actually was.

Ilyan? I tried again, my heart rate picking up when he once again ignored me. I almost wondered if he could hear me, but I felt his heartbeat pick up as I said his name, his nerves almost setting me on edge. Ilyan was nervous. The simplicity of the thought piqued my own nerves and I shivered, trying not to let my worry take over.

“I found this bottle when I was going through some stuff,” Wyn said as she moved to refill the other two glasses that she had already drained. “It’s the last one.”

Her tone was soft and sad as she overfilled the glasses, causing the liquid to pour down the side and onto the table.

Don’t block me out, I pleaded, careful to use the same words he had used with me before. This time I knew he had heard me. His lips turned up ever so slightly as he turned to look at me, the hungry look in his eyes catching me on fire.

My breath caught in my chest as I gazed at him, his smile increasing until he leaned toward me, his lips pressing against the hollow of my ear. I stifled a gasp at the warmth of his lips against my skin, his hand tightening around mine as he pulled me into him.

“I need to speak to you,” he whispered, my spine tingling as his breath ran over my skin.

Then talk, I pleaded, not trusting my voice to form cognitive words.

“Not here,” he whispered before he pulled away, the grip on my hand loosening until he was gone.

His body was still close enough that I could feel the heat of him; it would only take one short movement to reach out and touch him. Still, that distance could have been a football field. I don’t know why, but those two words had somehow closed me off from him. My worry about what was on his mind increased until it was a tight, little ball in my chest.

“The timing couldn’t be better.” Thom leaned down and grabbed one of the now-filled glasses, his voice pulling me out of the revelry Ilyan had trapped me in.

I stepped toward the table cautiously, not sure where I fit.

“Na zdraví,” Ilyan announced, his voice deep and regal as he lifted his glass toward the ceiling.

“Na zdraví,” Thom and Wyn repeated in unison as they followed suit, all of the glasses held above their head before they lowered them, draining the contents in one swallow.

The room filled with the thump of the glasses against the table, the sound sending a jolt through me. They stood in silence, their eyes closing as each of their faces turned down in a solemn reverence that I did not quite understand. Watching them—watching a tradition that reached back before much of what I had retained in history class—was awe inspiring.

And lonely.

I felt like I was intruding on something beautiful, something I wasn’t quite sure I would ever understand. Wyn silently moved to refill the glasses, none of them speaking before they raised their glasses again.

“To Talon,” Ilyan said, his voice breaking on the word, the name of the friend he had lost.

That everyone had lost.

“To Talon,” Thom’s voice rang clear, but Wyn’s stuck in her throat. Even though I saw her mouth move, no sound escaped.

Their hands stayed above their heads before they again drained their glasses, dropping them back to the table. Once again they looked down, their faces masked in pain and regret before Wyn moved to refill her empty cup.

“For my brother, who gave up everything,” she said as she filled the one she had just drained, the liquid pouring over the side as her hand began to shake.

She handed the bottle to Ilyan who took it steadily and filled his glass right to the brim.

“For Talon. Goodbye, my friend,” he said, his eyes still focused on the glass on the table below him.

I couldn’t help it; even though the tight knot of nerves still sat in my heart, I heard the pain in his voice, and my heart reacted. I closed the football-field-sized gap and wrapped my arm around his waist, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as I came to stand next to him. I heard his breath catch as his arm moved over my shoulders, his lips pressing against the top of my head.

Ilyan passed the bottle to me, the glass heavy and uncomfortable in my hands. I looked up to Ilyan, sure he had made a mistake, but he only looked at me, a single nod of his head prompting me to continue.

A shaky breath fled from my chest as I looked at the bottle. I knew what I was supposed to do; I knew who I had lost, who my heart still longed for.