Scorched Treachery (Imdalind, #3)(96)
He was light.
I had felt it before, before Wyn’s screams had broken open the fa?ade I had plastered together. Ilyan was love.
He wasn’t love simply because I knew he loved me. Because I did know that. Without question, he had proved that to me again and again. No, he was love because I loved him.
I loved him.
“What is beyond your anger, Joclyn? What is your pain hiding?”
I didn’t look away from him as he asked his questions. I didn’t dare take my eyes off him. I stared at Ilyan as my body leaned toward him, as my hands moved from his. My fingers moved on their own, trailing up his shirt and over the skin of his neck.
I held my breath as I touched his face, the soft skin I had never touched before. I ran the pads of my fingers over his eyebrows, his defined cheek bones, and through the hairline of his short cut.
My heart pulsed wildly inside of me as I let my fingers trail over the scruff from a beard I had never seen, prickly and sharp, before dragging to his lips. I froze.
I froze at the sound of my pulse in my ears. I froze at the calm that had overtaken me. I froze at the desire that circled through Ilyan’s mind and the willpower he was exerting to keep it there.
I watched his breathing. I felt the heat of his breath against my fingers, the pulse of his magic hot under his skin.
What was behind the anger?
“Ilyan,” I said again, his eyes opening slowly to stare at me, “you are behind my anger.”
I smiled at my words, my heart thumping even more at the clarity they brought, at the way each word formed perfectly. Ilyan’s lips upturned underneath my touch, the skin parting as he kissed the pads of my fingers, the wetness of his lips soft against my skin.
“I always will be,” he whispered as my fingers fell from his lips and I moved closer.
As I kissed him.
Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading, for supporting and for loving what I do.
Thank you to my friends who put up with my excessive writing habits, to Liz who watched the Monkey, to Dan who cheers me on. Thank you to those who read it first, and those who read it last. Thank you for sharing, for raving, for blowing me away.
Thank you.
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About the Author
Rebecca Ethington has been telling stories since she was small. First, with writing crude scripts, and then in stage with years of theatrical performances. The Imdalind Series is her first stint into the world of literary writing. Rebecca is a mother to two, and wife to her best friend of 14 years. She was born and raised in the mountains of Salt Lake City, and hasn’t found the desire to leave yet. Her days are spent writing, running, and enjoying life with her amazing family.
Soul of Flame, the fourth book in The Imdalind Series is due to be released December 2013
Rebecca will also be releasing Through Glass, book one in The Glass Series September 20th 2013
And Hit, a YA Contemporary, in November 2013
Follow Rebecca on her blog at:
www.rebeccaethington.com
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@ RebEthington
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Striking
By Lila Felix and Rachel Higginson
Release date September 1, 2013
Chapter Two Stockton
Just add water—my ass.
I still sucked at pancakes. Two damned years of mixing this crap up and it still looked like a substance I’d use to soothe a burn rather than slop on the griddle and attempt to feed to Will. She knew how to cook them and I was sure that any minute she’d come and save me from this lumpy glue mixture I’d stared at for the last ten minutes. I left it there in the bowl our mother had always used for pancakes, a scratched up, metal monstrosity, better suited for Will to use for slopping the pigs, and moved on to making sausage—now that I could handle.
“Did you mess up the pancakes again,” She half barked, half yawned.
“No, I left them for you to mess up.”
She ‘Pssshh’ed in my direction and then started adjusting the temperature on the griddle. As I finished up cooking the sausage she’d already stacked up six pancakes and was slathering them with butter.
I heard the screen door slam and knew it was West. My youngest brother never missed breakfast—never. He was commuting back and forth from school but always tried to catch at least one meal a day with us. We all valued family like never before. Will divvied up the portions and dug in without a second thought. I reached under the lip of the old table our father built out of bartered lumber and shook it once to get her attention.
“What the he—sorry Stock.” She put down her fork and she bulged out her eyes in what I knew was an attempt at not rolling her eyes at me.
“Willa,” I used her whole name for affect, something I’d learned long ago from our parents that she hated, “why don’t you say grace since you’re so fast to eat.”