Roar (Stormheart #1)(106)

Some of her hair fell down into her face, a tumble of snow-white strands. She jerked backward in shock and lost her footing, falling back into the water.

“Roar? Roar, what happened?”

Her body shook with cold, so the words came out in a stutter as she said, “I—I’m f-fine. I fell. That’s all.”

“Let me go get Jinx to help you.”

“No,” she said, “I can do this.” He groaned and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, but didn’t protest. “Why don’t you sit down?” she asked. “You are making me nervous.”

He shuffled closer without looking at her. Then he sat down facing toward the palm trees so that he couldn’t see her without turning all the way around.

She focused back on what had made her fall in the first place. How was her hair blond again? Surely it could not have faded in mere days. Nova assured her that the dye would last for several months. She grabbed a chunk of hair, pulling it within her line of sight, and sure enough, all of it was once again that familiar pale blond—from the ends, to as far up as she could see.

“Locke…” she called out from where she still sat in the rushing river. “My hair is different?”

He cleared his throat. “It was like that after … after the skyfire.”

Light flashed below her, and if she had not felt her heartbeat pick up, she would have known it by the flickering lights in her chest. She leaned her head upon her knees and focused on breathing, on staying calm, not on all the things that were wrong. She must have stayed silent too long because Locke called out her name again.

“Almost done,” she said, pushing herself back into motion. She decided to dunk her head beneath the water and call that good enough. She came back up shivering, but her head felt clearer and her body less fatigued already. Carefully, she pushed up to her feet and wobbled toward the shore. Water sluiced over her skin in icy rivulets, and she snatched up the linen towel as soon as she made it to the bank, pulling it tight around her. For a moment, she stood there, trying to shake off the cold, staring at Locke’s broad back. He looked tense, and he kept running a hand through his hair, a nervous habit of his.

There was something empowering about knowing she made him nervous. That it wasn’t only she who came unraveled when they were together.

With her hair sopping wet, she dried her body as much as she could, and pulled the tunic back over her head.

“I’m covered.” The tunic still left her legs bare, and it clung to her damp skin in places, but it was more modest than the towel. He began to turn slowly. The line of his jaw came into view first, and her eyes caught on the hair that grew there. It was thicker than usual, closer to a beard like Ransom wore. She wanted to run her fingers over his face, to learn the texture of his bristled jaw.

Then his eyes were on her—on her wet hair and her flushed face and shaking hands and bare legs. He was on his feet immediately, crossing toward her and pulling her against his hard chest.

“You’re freezing.”

She burrowed further into his hold, pressing her face into the hollow of his throat and breathing in the scent of him. He smelled like the woods and sweat and horses and warmth. The heat he gave off transcended touch. It filled up her lungs and her heart and the aching hollow place inside that she had been wrestling with since she woke.

For long moments, they were content to stand there wrapped up in each other. He held the tears at bay, held back all her fears and doubts. Over and over, he ran his fingers through her wet hair, and that easy, safe moment came to an end when he said, “This color suits you. I did not think anything could make you more lovely, but I was wrong.”

She spun away from him, gasping, as the rest of the world came rushing back in.

“I should take you back to camp,” he said. “You need to rest.”

“No,” she cried, her voice too loud, too desperate. Softer, she said, “I’m not ready to go back.”

He looked like he wanted to disagree, but after a moment’s hesitation, he peeled off the leather jacket he wore, leaving him in a linen shirt that was rolled up to his elbows. He didn’t give her a choice, only picked up her hand and pushed it into one of the sleeves. She was still cold, so she didn’t fight too hard as he coaxed her into his jacket.

He took her hand and pulled her farther up the bank, into a nook between a semicircle of palm trees that blocked some of the wind. He settled her between his knees, wrapping his arms around her as another layer of warmth.

“How do you feel?” The deep gravel of his voice made her turn; she found his head bowed and his face turned sideways, his eyes fixed on her beneath the fall of his dark hair. She should not have felt pleased at the distress he wore like a second skin, but she had spent her entire life feeling like she wasn’t enough. To think that a man like Locke felt so strongly about her was a boost to her weary spirit.

She did not know how to answer, but then he began to speak, recounting the rise of the storm and his own attempt to diffuse it. Her throat ached when she swallowed, and she focused on breathing to fight the tears she could feel begging for release. She said, “You went for the heart when you could have just dispersed it. Why?”

“It was a powerful storm. Strong enough that it might have taken me a long while to dismantle it. And with it right over us, there was too much risk that you or I would be struck before I could get it down. Going for the heart was the fastest way to end it.”