Adelaide Forrest

“Death is calling to you,” she said, her words echoing what had been foretold in the woods on Samhain.

I swallowed when Caelum’s hand tightened around my waist, his arm twitching against my spine. “Is that a threat?” he asked, his voice dropping low in warning. Only he would be foolish enough to think he could stand against a witch.

The mark on her forehead pulsed with light, answering the quiet violence hidden in his words. “I don’t mean either of you any harm. Death stalks her, as if she is halfway to the grave already. From the look in her eye, this is not the first time she has heard such a thing,” Imelda answered, turning her back on us and vacating the common space.

Skye turned a bright smile my way. “She has manners. Imagine that.” The sly look she leveled at Jensen erased any of my worry that she might have thought me rude in the moments leading up to the compliment.

“It isn’t his fault. Men have no need of manners,” I said, shifting in my seat to look at Caelum from the corner of my eye.

He set his spoon into his bowl loudly as he finished shoveling the stew into his mouth. “What are you trying to say?”

“That you’re more beast than man half the time, clearly. Don’t be daft. You just told Skye you had a brain; now isn’t the time to prove yourself wrong,” I argued, smirking at the mock-incredulous expression he wore on his features.

“That’s rich coming from you,” he said. “I seem to recall you putting a knife to my throat when we first met. I hardly think that’s a polite way to greet a newcomer.”

“You intruded on my shelter for the night,” I said, taking another bite of bread and chewing thoughtfully. If we’d just stayed like I’d wanted, would Brann still be alive? Would he and Caelum have found a way to coexist?

He continued to feed me while Skye and Jensen watched, the moment between us feeling far too intimate for their prying eyes. It was such a simple thing—letting him guide nourishment to my mouth and swallowing what he gave me—but the gleaming expression on his face was haunting.

As if feeding me appealed to him on an animalistic level, his need to provide for me rose to the surface with the uncertainty and risk of death behind us. He scraped the last of the broth out of the bowl, resting the spoon on my tongue and letting me swallow the liquid down while he stared at my mouth in fascination.