“What do we do?” I ask, because I can see the wheels turning in his head and they’re definitely not turning in mine. “Should we look for the spring?”
He glances at the endless black outside the window. “No, we’ll wait for the others – and research.”
I don’t get to say anything else before Roarke has buried his attention back in the book, and returned to absently clearing items off the bench. Not for the first time I wish my other three guys would hurry back.
I groan, looking for something to shut my mind up.
“Where?” I ask, turning in a circle.
Roarke stops and looks at me honestly. He nods, like something just occurred to him, grabs a piece of bread, and shoves it into my face. I struggle to take it from him, chewing through the first unavoidable bite.
“You can’t read yet,” he says, turning away. Walking away, with his back to me, with his ass to me. Damn, he has a nice ass.
“And you need to stop doing that,” he says, not turning around.
“Stop doing what?” I stammer.
He doesn’t respond.
Pacing up to the table in the middle of the room, I put the bread down and hand him a piece of chalk.
“Show me what the word looks like,” I say as soon as I can swallow down my bite. He smiles at me, like he hadn’t expected me to have such a good idea. “Don’t look at me like that. Just because I can’t read doesn’t make me stupid.”
Which he ignores, taking the chalk in confident fingers and scrawling a word across the painted surface in one corner of the work bench.
“Rearrange,” he says, then he waves to the cabinets on the left wall. “Check the files. I’m going to search her books for anything to do with invisible walls or barriers, physical impediments, or any relation to the Tiradon Potion that allows a triune to disband.” He stops, maybe because he’s realized I have no idea what he’s on about. “There are too many variables in the words that might be used for a potion I don’t know the name of.”
I take an extra long inhale of his paper and ink scent before saying, “I’ll look for this,” and tapping the word on the bench.
“Thank you,” he says, leaning forward so his hair falls about his face and momentarily shields the world.
He draws in several delicate breaths – and it’s not that the guy isn’t allowed to breathe, but the way he’s doing it, like he’s savoring my scent, is sending shivers down my spine. Which isn’t fair because we agreed to give each other space.
“For looking for a word?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, one word – then he turns away.
Also not fair.
No time like the present to teach myself to read. I trace my finger over the series of lines and flicks that he’s drawn, three sharp shapes, a swirl that connects them, and three dots over the top of it. The weirdest language ever.
Then I move to the filing cabinet.
Yanking it open, I say, “You really need to get around to teaching me to read.”
“When Pax gets back.”
“How long exactly will that be?” Or how soon, I’d rather it be soon.
“I’m not sure. They think Eydis is here, so they’re probably not rushing.”
I glance down the labels on the black folders. Folder after folder with sheets, diagrams, lists, paintings of plants, dried samples, you name it she collected it, sticking up at odd angles. Before I can begin looking, the exact word I’m searching for has already been mashed-up in my memory. Mixed with all of these other words jumping out at me.
I move back to the bench where Roarke is standing almost directly in front of my word, a book open in his hands and no hint that he’s going to move. So I lean into him, nudge his book to the side, and try again to memorize the pattern of lines – and again to keep my mind off of his body.
His incredibly yummy body.
He takes a deep breath and freezes – like I surprised him. Almost like he’s trying to control himself.
He’s not the only one.
“They need to hurry,” he groans, walking away from me.
Heading for the other side of the room.
Bubble – life-threatening.
Sabers attacking us – life-threatening.
Roarke looking like my stray thoughts are causing him pain – not life-threatening, but important.
“Okay, you need to tell me what I keep doing wrong.” I point at him as I talk.
And he just keeps working. “Nothing, just try to focus.”
But in truth, the only thing I want to focus on is Roarke. For a moment I don’t care about the consequences, I just want him to get over here now.
The very idea is muffled by the remnants of his power knocking me out and a sharp, vision-blurring ache through my temple.
Roarke turns on his heels, bringing with him a draught of fresh jasmine. He doesn’t even look up from his book as he ambles towards me, and when he doesn’t stop, I snap the book shut in his hands.
He freezes and glares at me. Glaring is not an emotion I usually see on Roarke. I get a butterflies-low-in-my-stomach reaction, which is uncomfortable and nauseating.
“Sorry, I’m not sure why focusing is so hard.”
“I feel like we need to revisit our space issue,” he says.
“Or not? You could just accept that I like being in your space?”
I was scared of him once – very scared. Then Logan, bastard-nephew-of-the-Crown, had his men break my arm. Roarke slept next to me all night, taking my pain away, and when I woke up, I trusted him. Pain can change a person like that. I trust him, but he doesn’t seem to trust himself.
Or trust that I’m genuine. I don’t know – but I want to know.
“No,” he says, that far too serious look on
