The Storm Crow (The Storm Crow, #1)(68)

“It’s amazing,” I breathed. “Thank you.” Looking up, I found his soft eyes gazing back at me, head tilted, his lips slightly parted. Lips I wanted to run my fingers along, to feel if they were as soft as they’d felt last night. Then he seemed to realize what he was doing, gave his head a little shake, and stepped over to a workbench like he was looking for something.

I swallowed hard and lifted the page to look at the second drawing underneath, revealing a very different image. This too was of me, but I sat sideways in one of the workshop chairs, my legs dangling over one arm and my back against the other. My elbow rested on the back of the chair, propping my head up, my eyes staring unfocused at some spot out a rain-sprinkled window. I looked…sad.

I held the papers up. “So which am I? Proud warrior or despondent thinker?”

He tapped the one of me in the chair. “I was actually going for excessive tea drinker in that one. I think I’m actually out of bergamot.” Sure enough, a pile of empty teacups sat in the background of the drawing.

I gave him a flat look, and he smiled, leaning back against the workbench. “Why can’t you be both?”

I tucked the second drawing underneath the first and set them on the workbench. “I’ve wasted enough time being sad.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being sad. Everyone feels that way one time or another.”

“Some people for longer than others,” I muttered.

Caylus stepped up beside me, sliding the top drawing over so they lay side by side. He pointed at the one of me curled in on myself. “What do you see?”

“Weakness.”

He smiled, sending a rush of warmth into my cheeks. “I see someone who cares about something enough to worry about it so strongly, she loses herself in it.”

My flush deepened. “I think you’ve inhaled too many fumes.”

He continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “You think about the crows, don’t you? When you go quiet,” he said.

I folded my arms. “Maybe I just don’t feel like talking in those moments.”

He raised an eyebrow, giving me a doubtful look as if to ask, You? Not talk?

I deflated. “Yes. I think about the crows.”

He moved closer, the heat from his body dancing along my skin. I became all too aware of his closeness, of the bright green of his eyes. The kind of green that pushes up out of the ashen earth to remind you that life struggles on.

His fingers grazed mine, surprisingly steady. Sharp heat prickled behind my eyes, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep the growing tears at bay. He must have seen them anyways, as his fingers brushed my cheek gently.

I leaned against his chest. To my relief, his arms encircled me, wrapping me in a warm strength that chased the tears from my eyes and the tightness from my throat. I might have Res, but he was the last of his kind, and he wouldn’t live forever. One day, the crows would disappear for good.

Something shattered, and we both leapt. Behind Caylus, Gio sat on the workbench edge, his paw outstretched, disinterested yellow eyes staring at the broken remains of the beaker he’d knocked to the floor.

Caylus grabbed a towel from the workbench to deal with the glass. The moment he stepped away, I felt his heat leave with him, and I almost reached out to pull him back. Instead, I touched the drawing of me as a rider, the paper rough beneath my fingertips, and felt a spark of something come to life deep inside me. I breathed deeply, and it grew with my breath, smoldering, steady, strong.

“You can keep that if you want.” He didn’t look at me, but the back of his neck was red as he scooped up the glass.

I folded the paper and tucked it in a pocket, the image imprinted on the back of my eyelids. Was that how he saw me? A warrior cloaked in shadows, the night itself standing sentry at my back?

Was that who I could be?

I resolved to pay more attention the rest of the day. Caylus had apparently been preparing to mix a powerful acid, and while the idea of making liquid fire made my skin crawl, I slid on a pair of thick, elbow-length gloves and set to helping.

*

After dinner, I changed into my flying leathers and met Ericen down at the training grounds, leaving Kiva sitting at the dining room table with Auma, playing a game I’d never seen before involving painted cards.

The training grounds were empty, the first wisps of evening mist coiling over the castle corridors and down along the grass. Ericen was already running through drills with a practice sword in one of the rings. I blinked. He was shirtless.

Lean, corded muscle pulled taut with every motion, his movements tight and controlled. I felt my eyes widen reflexively before wiping the expression off my face a second before he spotted me.

“No uniform tonight?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

He smirked, as if knowing he’d unsettled me. “Centerian fights are shirtless. Makes it easier to see the blood.”

“Of course. That’s very important.”

He offered me a hand, and I grasped it, letting him haul me into the ring with an ease that made my heart stumble. This was not going to be an easy fight.

Up close, the torchlight illuminated countless tiny scars flecking his pale skin from years of training, including those along his biceps and forearms, layered in even, clean lines. Like Razel’s.

He followed my gaze. “I don’t practice.” His voice was cool. “Not since it became my choice.”