Roar (Stormheart #1)(99)
He lunged for her, and she rolled in the sand, throwing another handful as she went.
“Sneaky. I could call you Fox.”
She could have run again, probably should have, but something kept her there. She lay back against the sand as she had the first night they arrived in this town. She stretched out her arms and legs, dragging them back and forth a few times to leave an impression in the sand beneath her. It was getting darker, the sun long gone. The night was a deep violet mixed with dark blue. And out of the corner of her eye, she saw Locke moving closer. Instinct flared, and she nearly ran again. Except that … she didn’t want to. At least not all of her. She felt restless, but she knew running would not fix that. She was just nervous.
As he eased within touching distance, he asked, “You are not going to throw sand on me again, are you?”
She pretended to consider it for a moment. “Probably not. But I make no promises.”
He stretched out beside her, propped up on his side, his long hair cascading over the hand he used to hold his head up. “Did I wear you out already?”
She bit her lip and shook her head. She didn’t understand the way she was feeling. Her mind kept flicking from one thought to another, like a bird that would not perch in one place for more than a heartbeat. And she knew it was because something could happen between them tonight. And she wanted and feared it in equal measure. “We should get our horses and go for a ride,” she said, stalling. “It’s been days since I’ve felt the wind in my hair.”
She turned her head toward him to find him smiling. “I’d like that. But it’s dark, and I don’t want to take any chances that we’ll run into a storm with just the two of us.”
She swallowed and nodded her head. He was right. But that didn’t stop the longing. She wanted the cool rush of the wind and the hard pound of hooves. She wanted the kind of speed that left everything else behind and gave her the simplest, purest form of happiness there was.
“Let’s go to a tavern,” she said. “I’ve never actually been inside one.”
He touched her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll take you sometime. But tonight, I’m afraid we are both covered in sweat and sand.” He rolled closer, sliding his hand from her cheek to tangle in her hair. “You’re restless tonight. What’s going on?”
Opposing impulses crashed inside her.
Run—wild and free.
Stay—close and warm.
She wanted both of them. She wanted safety and adventure and excitement and comfort. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I feel like doing something wild.”
One moment she was lying there in the sand, staring up at the sky, her fingers fidgeting against her thighs, and the next he’d pulled her so that she lay half on top of him, one leg strewn over his and their chests pressed together.
His voice was a low rumble as he said, “I can think of a few wild things.”
She felt her heartbeat everywhere—at the bottom of her throat and the base of her spine and the hollow of her knees. One of his hands ran up her side, mapping out the curve of her waist. He brought her close, so close she could feel his breath against her mouth. She shut her eyes, hovering there so near his warmth but still separate. The anticipation made her hand tremble against his chest, and all her limbs felt hollow. She wanted him to close the distance, wanted to do it herself. But something held her back. Her distracted mind had not stopped, only now it flickered between the curve of his lips and the wall of his chest and the sand blowing over their legs and the bird that was chirping somewhere in the distance and the lone insect who was fighting valiantly to fill the whole night with sound.
A hot flush of irritation swept over the back of her neck. She rolled away from Locke, feeling frustrated and petulant, which made zero sense. He was here, and if he stared at her any harder, her skin would catch fire. When his fingers touched low on her back, she shuddered from pleasure at the same time that her fists clenched in her lap.
That was when she noticed her bandages had come undone and she had reopened the cuts on her fingers. Locke had warned her that they would not heal easily. She hadn’t realized how often she used her hands until each strong flex of her fingers broke open the wounds again.
“Roar?”
Irritation seized her, and when the blood from her hands dripped onto the sand a moment later, that irritation bloomed into wild delight. The hair on her arms stood up on end, and blinding white skyfire split the sky in two. Sound exploded in her ears; the whole world seemed to shake when the blazing light pierced the earth so close that she felt a stinging shock push through her, locking up each and every muscle in her body.
It was gone faster than it came, and a few moments later, it struck again, splintering a brush tree and leaving fire in its place.
She swore. The land was flat, not a single large tree within sight, which meant she and Locke were the biggest targets out here. She heard another jarring crack, like the snap of a whip, and light flared in her peripheral vision. Glee welled up inside her—eager and excited, and so at odds with her own terror. She moved on instinct, pulling her legs in so that she sat in a ball. She curled her hands over her head and looked beneath her arm for Locke. She expected to find him fighting the storm or readying himself to do so. But instead, he sat still, his legs sprawled out and his upper body supported by his elbows, likely the same position he had been in when she rolled off him without warning. His handsome face had gone slack, his eyes big and blank.