Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
The cold bites into my cheeks, leaving them raw and burning. I don't bother pulling up my scarf. Physical pain is easier than whatever this is, this hollow thing spreading beneath my ribs, eating through bone and cartilage. Jealousy.
God, I hate that word. Hate how it shrinks me down to nothing. Before Asher, I never looked at someone and thought, why her, not me? Never wanted to claw the answer out of my own chest.
“All you've ever had to fucking do is say the word.”
His voice echoes through my brain as I push deeper into the forest. Say what word? When? When he's carrying another woman to bed? When he’s entering new relationships? When he’s ghosting me?
When I’m not married anymore?
A branch snaps under my boot, loud in the winter silence. I freeze, heart in throat, before remembering there's no one to catch me here. No Asher with his knowing eyes. Just me, my pathetic jealousy, and these damn frozen tears I refuse to let fall.
I smell it before I see it—sulfur and minerals…and salt.
Trees spread apart, and I push harder, my boot catching on ice that nearly takes me down. Through a gap in the pines, steam curls up from a natural pool.
I laugh. Of course it would be beautiful. Of course the universe would hand me this perfect moment when I'm too pissed off to give a shit about it.
I dump my bag on a dry rock, fingers stupid with cold as they work at my coat buttons. The air bites into my skin, goosebumps erupting across my arms. I hiss through my teeth. Shit, it’s cold. But I need this—need to feel something real, even if it hurts.
Swiping the bottle of wine, I rip off the cork and spit it near my boots and coat.
I kick off my shoes, and wince when snow melts against my toes, causing me to dance awkwardly as I hop toward the steaming water.
I can be in the moment.
I'm free. Free from watching. Free from wanting. Free from him.
Even if it's just for a few hours.
Even if I know I'll have to go back.
Even if freedom is just another word for running.
* * *
Sulfur doesn’t wash off as easily as your sins do. Twenty minutes under hot water, and the scent still sticks to me like a clingy ex.
Steam drowns the bathroom mirror, but I swipe the congestion away and drag the white midi over my head. Silk slides down, catching every curve I'd forgotten existed. The split climbs my thigh as I tug it into place. White. Like I'm some virgin sacrifice. Like I'm not the bloodstain to the color.
I quickly make my way down the stairs to find Luce, when voices catch my attention from the kitchen. A woman curses in German, tangled with Jasper's laugh. Their battle over seasoning sounds like the start of every love story. Jasper and Jord knew each other from their earlier training days, and when Jord mentioned he was looking for work, I jumped at taking him. Turns out he loved Veilarath after his first visit, and now lives here on the island.
“—Sauerbraten zuerst, das ist tradition—”
“Nein, nein, die Vorspeisen—”
Jasper and his sous chef square off across the steel prep station, knives flashing like switchblades in afternoon glare. The woman swats forward, gray braid snapping as she brandishes her ladle like whoever controls the gravy controls the war.
“Mir ist es egal, womit ihr anfangt,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. I don't care what you start with. “Solange es essbar ist.”As long as it's edible.
The ladle clatters to the floor.
Jasper's knife freezes mid-chop, his eyes widening like I've just materialized from thin air. Which, given my profession, isn't entirely inaccurate.
“Sie sprechen Deutsch?” The woman's voice pitches high with shock as she asks if I speak her tongue.
“Offensichtlich.” Obviously. I push off the doorframe, moving into the kitchen with measured steps. The dress whispers against my thighs, a sound too soft for this house of soon-to-be ghosts.
Jasper recovers first, a grin splitting his face. “All these weekends, and you never told me.”
“There's a lot you don't know about me, Jasper.” I wink at him.
Movement in my peripheral. My body recognizes him before my mind catches up—heart jumping while my gut twists itself into knots. Asher fills the doorway, snow melting in his disheveled hair, still wearing his gear from the Games. His jaw works, grinding hard enough I swear I can hear his molars crack. But there's something raw in his eyes that makes me want to both slap him and smooth away the crease between his brows.
“Asher.” Jasper brightens, oblivious to the war raging inside me. “The conquering hero returns! How were the Games?”
Those blue eyes stay locked on mine. A muscle jumps beneath the dirt smudged across his cheekbone. His fingers tighten around the doorframe until the wood groans beneath his grip, knuckles white and straining, the skin pulled so thin I wait for bone to split through.