Roar (Stormheart #1)(23)
A familiar heat crept over her skin the longer he stared, and it reminded her of Cassius. The two men couldn’t be more different in spite of their names. Cassius’s power felt cold and controlled, whereas Locke blazed with all the intensity of the sun. But the way she reacted around them both? That was alarmingly similar. All the more reason she needed to escape this tent.
“Name,” he urged again. And she was so desperate for him to stop looking at her with such single-minded focus that she opened her mouth, ready to say whatever it took to gain some distance.
“It’s Ror—” Her brain caught up a moment too late. She slammed her mouth closed and considered slamming her face into a pillow. One little eyebrow arch plus a half smile and a troublesome nickname, and she forgot how to use her brain. Again.
“What was that? Sounded like—”
“Ah … Roar. You wanted a name, and that’s it. Just Roar.”
Not a great recovery, but only a few people knew her as Rora. To most, she was only ever Princess Aurora or Your Highness. No one would expect her to be in a black market dressed in plain, ill-fitting clothes.
His eyes narrowed. “What kind of name is that?”
“What kind of name is Locke?” she shot back.
“A nickname. It’s where I grew up.”
“You grew up in Locke?”
What had he said before? He’d rather die than be related to Cassius, a poor excuse for royalty. What did he know that she didn’t?
He shrugged in answer and mumbled, “Roar.” He said it again, his mouth forming the word slowly, as if it was more than just four letters strung together. “You do make a lot of noise for a little thing.”
She snorted. An actual, humiliating, totally un-princess-like snort … because she only qualified as little in comparison to his staggering height. His smile widened at the sound, and she wanted so badly to flee. But he grew up in Locke, and he clearly knew his way around this market, and she had so many questions.
He leaned forward so their faces were level.
“Roar.”
“Locke,” she replied.
“Who are you?”
That was her cue to bolt. She had lingered longer than she should already.
“I have to go.”
She still had questions, but none were worth the risk of his curiosity bearing fruit. She stood, and he followed, his reflexes so quick that he was fully upright before she was. All his ease and charm disappeared, swallowed up in an intensity as thick as fog. He gripped her biceps, bending to peer at her beneath her hood. His thumb unknowingly pressed against the wound on her arm, and she swallowed down a whimper.
He said, “I’m sorry. But you can’t leave without telling me about the man. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”
Until now, she had been the flustered one. But the look in Locke’s eyes was blind panic. She did not understand. He dropped his hands and stepped back. Turning away, he shoveled his fingers through his hair and gripped the back of his neck. He rasped, “I’m sorry, I—”
Rora never heard the rest of his apology. The tent flap flew open, and a girl ducked through. Long blue-black hair swayed in a ponytail down her back, and one side of her head was nearly shaved bare with a geometric pattern near her temple.
“Locke, get your ass—oh.”
Rora was the oh.
Clothed in black leather, the girl looked ready to do battle, and her short stature made her no less intimidating. She crossed her arms and studied Rora, her wide-set eyes narrowing beneath dark, thick brows.
“Picking up strays now?” she asked.
“Knock it off, Jinx.”
The girl, Jinx apparently, stared for a long moment, and Rora had to order her back not to curve under the attention. Then Jinx dropped her arms and shrugged, sauntering over toward a table covered in glass containers. “Duke is asking for you,” she said to Locke.
“It has to be me? Where’s Bait? Ransom? Sly?”
“Bait attempted to woo the adjacent stall owner’s daughter and failed spectacularly, as per usual. Duke sent him off to prevent any potential trouble. Ransom is playing bully to make sure no one’s fingers get too sticky. And Sly disappeared. Like she does. The question is … what are you doing?”
As if her words weren’t blatant enough, she followed them with a suggestive bounce of her eyebrows. Locke shifted uncomfortably. Uneasiness was such an odd look on his imposing figure that Rora wanted to spare him the scrutiny.
“It’s my fault he disappeared,” she said.
Jinx raised an eyebrow and snorted. “Clearly.”
The insinuation made something flip low in Rora’s belly.
“I’ve never been here before. I caused a bit of a scene, and Locke came to my rescue.”
“He does that.” Jinx smiled—white teeth against almond skin. “A regular old prince charming.”
“Jinx…” A look passed between them, and it held far more meaning than just his annoyed growl of her name.
Jinx’s accent was similar to those Rora had heard from Odilar, but not quite the same. Visitors from across Caelira were rare because of the dangers of traveling through the wilds, so her interactions with foreigners were limited. The contingent from Locke traveled the farthest of any in her lifetime.
“First timer, huh? I’m Jinx. In case you didn’t catch that from all his huffing and puffing.” She leaned back against the worktable, jars clinking behind her.