To Best the Boys(56)

Without looking at me, he quietly adds, “Although, may I point out that I could wonder the same? One version of the Rhen Tellur I know talks about corpses and wipes blood on my coat and enters an all-male contest in disguise. The other one is marrying that arrogant prig down there. For financial reasons I presume, but still . . .”

I swerve to look at him in confusion. I clench my jaw and try to keep my tongue at bay because what? “Mr. Wilkes, I can assure you, you are very wrong. And I do not appreciate such assumptions.”

“My apologies. The idea of you courting him for romance was so ludicrous I assumed it must be for status. And considering that his father wrote the fishing port restrictions, I’m obviously not as supportive of—”

“Stop.” I put a hand up. The trembling in my bones has reached my lungs. “Just . . . stop.” I shake my head, and all of a sudden my voice is shaking too. “No man speaks for me, Mr. Wilkes. Not you, and certainly not Mr. King. I never said anything about courting him—you took his word without asking me. And for your information, I’ve no intention of being tied to Mr. King. I’d rather marry a . . . a goat.” I darken my tone. “Now as I said, I’ve had enough male shallowness for one night, so if you’ve nothing better to talk about, perhaps you should leave.”

His expression has morphed from stiff discomfort to a look of utter relief. His eyes are an ocean of stars as he lifts a brow. And says nothing.

My frown deepens. “Well? What?”

He shakes his head and lets out a chuckle that reaches all the way up to the weathered creases around his eyes. “Rhen Tellur, you are the strangest woman I’ve ever met.”

“If this is you apologizing, you’re failing.”

“I apologize for believing Vincent’s word without asking yours. You’re right about me doing so, and it was presumptive and wrong.”

“You forgot insulting. But thank you.”

He rubs his chin. “But you are strange.”

I glare at him.

He laughs and leans back on his elbows on the grass. “It’s a compliment! I mean, look at you—you even cut your hair. For hull’s sakes, what are you doing here?”

“In the Labyrinth? Proving that I can.”

“Exactly.” He shakes his head at me. “Untamable. That’s what my mum would call you.”

I toss a piece of grass at him. “That makes me sound like the crazy ocean with all its sirens and storms.”

A funny look flashes across his face. “Why do you think I love it so much?”

I stall.

And he drops his gaze and looks away to the lake.

After a moment he clears his throat, and the sound is ragged. Dry. “So you won’t mind if I accidentally clock Mr. King another solid one, one of these days?”

The warmth in my chest leaps and spreads to my stomach. “Be my guest. I might even help you.”

His smile appears momentarily, before his expression turns serious. He tips his head and his gaze finds mine again, and there’s something in his demeanor that’s a little wild, a little determined, a little resolute. “I am sorry, Rhen.”

I don’t know why, but my throat tightens. Like he just offered a sweeter, deeper balm to a bruise I’d already forgotten was there. I bat my lashes and look away. To the lake, the dying bonfire, the tent.

The tent, with those words.

What do you want?

I want my mum to live.

I want the right to earn an education.

I want to be the first female scientist.

I want to create my own happiness.

I want . . .

I peer over at Lute who’s lying flat on the grass with his head on his arms, looking up at the stars. The warmth flares and swirls and licks at my blood, sending heat through my veins to my skin. I softly lean over and plant a single kiss on Lute’s cheek, and I feel his entire body freeze. I pull back just enough to catch his reaction. His expression glints surprise.

A moment later his gaze falls to my lips and the look turns heavy—like a fog-covered moor when the earth hasn’t quite woken yet. I study his mouth—it really is anatomically perfect.

And then he slips his hand to my forehead and brushes aside my bangs, and everything about it feels calm and electric. Like a wildfire racing for a tranquil sea.

His fingers trace my cheek down to my chin, and he holds his hand there. And he is trembling just as much as me. And then I place my lips on his and he is pulling me in, and it is the most delicious sensation I’ve ever known, as a breeze picks up and my skin is a ripple of goose bumps and heat and home.

I tangle my hands through his hair and down the sides of his face until they have wandered to his neck, beneath which his pulse is crashing like the morning tides. And mine is crashing just as strong. A minute longer, and I pull back. And my heart is racing so hard I swear they can hear it all the way down in the tent.

I blush and it provokes his dimpled smile, and I’m just about to tell him what happens to a person’s blood and organs after their body dies, when a low wail picks up in the direction of the island.

Lute sits up and I scoot right beside him so he can slip his arm around me.

As if in answer to the ghoulish moans, a low scream starts out on the lake that prickles the hairs on the back of my head.

He looks at me. “Apparently there are sirens in the water.”