My fingers trembled as I fumbled with the buttons of my bodice. My skin was still tingling from where Jarek's mouth had been just moments ago. He stood by the window, his back to me, and his silhouette cutting a jagged line against the fading afternoon light. The air in the room was heavy, filled with the scent of bergamot and the unspoken truth about to break us both.
"Whose child is it, Nyla?" I whispered internally, my heartbeat going over the room.
"He's playing with us," Nyla snarled, though her voice lacked its usual bite. "Or he's about to give us back the piece of our soul we thought was buried in the dirt. He should know better than that."
I didn't want to hope. Hope was a dangerous thing in a world ruled by men like Gideon. I stood up, smoothing down the drab fabric of my pants, feeling like an imposter in this room of mahogany and ancient power.
