Five
SENAN
THEN
I am not a stalker.
Stalking implies nefarious intentions, and I am only sitting on this rooftop across from the mystery woman’s tower because I require answers. All right,maybeI have delayed announcing my presence because I cannot seem to tear my eyes away from her form as she waits next to a rusted weathervane. But that is entirely irrelevant.
Never have I been rejected so soundly before learning a woman’s name. Afterward, certainly, but never before. It’s difficult to fathom my reputation being terrible enough to warrant such rudeness. What exactly has she heard about me? Is there any truth to it, or has Kumulus’s rumor mill embellished my misdeeds?
Not that it should matter what this woman thinks of me. We clearly do not run in the same social circles, and I will likely never see her again. But for some unknown reason, it does. It mattered enough for me to abandon the market and fly directlytoward the fading speck of blue on the western horizon, all the way to the other side of the river.
The woman doesn’t live in the tall towers near the castle but in the ones that barely peek from beneath the clouds. The stone used to craft her home doesn’t gleam at all, so it likely isn’t marble. She may be Scathian but mustn’t be related to any of the wealthier families. Her father might have been a knight or a lowly lord. I’ve never seen her at court, so her family’s connection to the king must be a very thin thread.
Still, there must be some connection. Each person who wishes to purchase or build a tower in Kumulus must first fill out an application with the magistrate and request an audience with the king for approval.
Instead of leaping down to one of the balconies ringing the tower, she drops her bag and settles herself right on the slate tiles. Watching golden sunlight sweep over the woman’s features as she tilts her face up to the sky leaves my stomach dropping like I’ve already leapt off this rooftop.
The intentions I had before arriving skew dangerously toward nefarious when she unbuttons her jerkin to shed itandher shirt. I passed plenty of Scathians sunning themselves on my way here and barely paid them any mind. But watching her like this feels seedy. I should leave.
Or…
Or I could fly off this rooftop and go to her.
Look. Don’t touch.
Never has that edict felt more impossible to heed. My hands start to tingle like the fire I wield is about to unleash itself without permission. I yearn to know how her sun-warmed skin would feel beneath my palms. To trace from the hollow of her throat through the valley of her breasts to her belly button. Follow the dip of her waist to the flare of her hip where her tight leggings begin.
That inexplicable desire should be enough to turn me off of the idea altogether, yet I find myself closing the distance between us, landing next to her forgotten lemons.
Her closed eyes fly open, her brow furrowed in confusion as I wordlessly sink onto the warm tiles and remove my shirt as well. Her jaw drops, but it’s difficult to tell if she’s gawking because she likes what she sees or because she is so irritated that she is rendered speechless.
Doesn’t matter either way, I suppose, since I have no plans on leaving without answers. So I ball up my shirt, using it as a pillow as I lay down next to her, so close that if I stretched my fingers, they would brush hers.
The heat from the late afternoon sun kisses my skin, filling my elemental stores. Before giving me even a moment to relax, she lets out an indignant screech and scrambles to sitting.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she gasps.
For some reason, her exasperation makes me smile. She is likely glowering down at me right this very minute—not that I open my eyes to check. “Refueling my magic.”
“Onmyroof?”
I crack one eye, finding my theory confirmed. “So, this is your tower then?” Belatedly, I check for a wedding ring or mating scar on her left hand. She bears neither, but I’ve known plenty of married women who have refused to wear both, especially the scar. Nowadays, people balk at tying themselves to one another for all of eternity.
A flush of irritation stretches across her jaw. Her throat. Her chest. When she catches me looking, she snags her shirt, holding the wrinkled material over herself. “Technically, it belongs to my great aunt.”
Thank the gods it doesn’t belong to her husband. That would have been quite awkward.
“Why did you follow me home?” Her eyes flash. “What do you want?”
The answer to both questions is the same: I don’t have a fucking clue.
All I know is that Ihadto follow her. Like the universe itself had tilted the realm simply to keep me flying in this woman’s direction. Lifting onto my elbows brings us that bit closer. Close enough that I can smell jasmine on her skin. “You know my name, but I do not know yours.”
“You flew across the bloody city for my name?”
“Maybe I was in the area.”