Broken Souls and Bones (Stonegate, #1)

by L.J. Andrews

To those who won’t admit they wish the love interest was the villain every time. I see you.

I was once told we never truly knew another soul until we saw the darkness they kept inside.

There was a discomfiting peace in those eyes, like returning home after a long frost.

To claim something as his—a strike, a kill, a horn of ale—Ashwood tapped whatever he wanted three times.

I blamed my craft, but there was something more, a pull toward Roark Ashwood that burned the words of his language into my mind. Like my own magic needed me to unravel anything about the man, and I could not help but want to learn the secrets he kept beneath his mask of cruelty.

The Sentry placed his palm against my cheek. I stiffened, eyes closed. But all he did was tap my face three times. Roark turned away in the next heartbeat and abandoned the hut. Pulse racing, I touched where Ashwood held his hand. Three taps—his gesture for claiming something as his. It meant mine.

Roark’s eyes burned like molten steel, his jaw taut like it was made from the stone at the gates. The way he looked at me, I could not tell if the Sentry feared for my life, or if he could not wait to take it himself.

“You’ve done something to dig under his skin, and I must know what it was, for he is the most infallible, unruffled ass I’ve ever met.”

“I learned long ago to sleep with a blade beneath my head.” The corner of Roark’s mouth curved. That I believe, though I doubt you know how to use it. “Pray you never find out.”

Lyra’s head fell back when she laughed, and I did not realize I’d gotten lost in the sound of it until cheers and applause drew my attention to the center of the tavern.

Roark paused a pace from the arched gate, one pace from stepping out of sight, and turned. His gaze was aimed at the tree house, as though he knew we were here. His gaze was aimed at me.

Your craft is rare, so it is misunderstood and hated, especially by Dravenmoor. But it is my duty to keep you breathing, so I will not let you slip into Salur yet.

“I am grateful, but I do not like attention drawn to me. When you spend your life hiding, to have endless eyes watching can be too much at times.”

I looked over my shoulder. The only eyes I found reeled me in like a line in the sea. Roark’s features were steady and unmoved. He did not look away. Strange as it was, I took a bit of strength from the scrutiny of the Sentry. He was a shadow I did not always want, he was the cause of my being here in many ways, but Roark was also becoming the constant on which I could rely.

Ashwood stepped closer, lowering to one knee. Overcome with the pain of the meld, the fear of the mirror, I hid my face against his chest, tears soaking his tunic. When his hand cupped the back of my head, letting me break, I’d never felt safer.

She knew how to become faceless in a crowd, never drawing the eyes of too many. She kept drawing mine.

I thought too damn much about the way her skin, when it touched me, no matter how briefly, lingered like venom I wanted to drink again and again.

You are more than the scars in your eyes.

Roark Ashwood was beautiful mayhem. Austere and impassive, then aimable and gracious. He was a storm rolling off the tides, but I could not find the strength to run. Instead, it seemed, I stood at the water’s edge, willing the gale to devour me.

Thane and Emi have not infected my soul like you.

Her taste, her body, her skin, I should not be such a weak thing and crave it, but a spark in the blood settled in my chest. Heat that drew me closer, keeping me ensnared by her touch. It was a feeling like coming home, like I’d been here before.

Roark pressed his brow to mine, holding me close. I lifted my chin when his fingers touched my cheek in his gentle words. I will keep watch on the corridor. “You already have two men at my door.” They are not me.

I could watch Lyra laugh all night.

I would burn the whole of this land to keep one heart beating.