Betrayer: (The Cursed Bloodstone Book 1)

Warmth devours every inch of my skin. At least, that’s the way it feels, like a devouring. I exhale, relishing in the heat.

As a child, I spent winters tucked close to my younger sister, Aniah. She’d always sneak her arm around me during the night. Often, I’d protest. Until one morning, she didn’t put her arm around me, and she didn’t keep the icy cold from touching me. She was the icy cold.

My breath suspends as I tuck away those thoughts. Her memory cannot touch me here. It’s too raw. Too painful.

Instead, I open my eyes and stare at the man next to me. Golden rays spill through the windows, framing his strong features. Gabriel is always gone by now, as if at the sight of sunlight, he cannot abide to stay near me.

I don’t dare move my legs from his. If I do, he may pull away and gaze at me with condemning eyes. He’ll think this is all my fault, even though he’s the one lying in the center of the bed. Usually, he sleeps close to the edge.

Jealousy seizes me at the way the sun skips across him, highlighting the muscles on his torso. My fingers itch to follow the same path, to touch him, to feel his skin beneath my fingertips.

He called me Sol.

A smile pulls at my lips as I think about the moment the day before. Something changed in him. Something no longer seeing me as a threat. Or at least, he seemed to let go of his battlements. Gone was his shield, his hatred, his bitter tongue.

Hair spills over my shoulders as I rise to get a better look. War scarred him, leaving patchworks of bravery on his skin. Each one tells his story. He has a long, faded scar on his chest and a scattering of smaller marks across his shoulders.

As if feeling my gaze, Gabriel’s eyes open, catching on mine, and my pulse thunders in my ears.

“Good morning,” I say in a soft voice.

“Sol.” He runs his fingers through his dark hair, unsettling the strands.

“Did you sleep well?”

He blinks and lowers his eyes to our tangled legs. A wild thought grips me as I wait for his reaction. What if I yank up my nightdress and straddle his lean hips? Would he object?

A vein throbs in his forehead as he meets my stare for a second time. No accusations burn there as I worried. Only things I find impossible to decipher in those blue depths. If only I understood him. If only he lusts the way other men do. They’re easy to read. Gabriel isn’t.

“Gabriel,” I say, my voice low, but audible enough for him to hear my desire.

For a beat, maybe two, his eyes lower, taking in my mouth, my throat, my thin nightdress before ripping away.

Disappointment grips me when he curses and bounds from the bed, robbing me of his heat. Muscles flex in his back and shoulders as he moves to the washing stand, cleans his face, and reaches for his surcoat.

He speaks as he continues dressing. “I moved Praxis to the other bedchamber. Don’t let anyone see him yet.”

“Gabriel.” I rise to sitting as he pulls on his weapon belt and pauses long enough to glance at me. “Must you go?”

“Yes. I’m already late.” He runs his fingers through his hair again and leaves the room.

I blow out a frustrated breath and move from the bed. The cold floor sends ice racing up my legs. After adding dried freesias to the water, I wash my face and body. Visions of lying close to Gabriel tease me as I dress in my gray surcoat, tie a belt around my waist, and leave the room.

Hesitation grips me like a fawn taking its first steps as I move to the other bedchamber. I peek around the door, studying the man lying on the bed. Like the day before, Praxis still sleeps.

Olah, help me.

The prayer strengthens me as I take a tentative step into the bedchamber. I need assurance, real assurance that my healing didn’t harm him further. Not that anything could have harmed him further. He was at death’s door.

I stare down at my hands, expecting something different, needing something different. They’re the same calloused hands. I clasp them together and shake my head. Mother would be amazed and proud. She always believed in me when others didn’t.

Yearning swells inside me, the desire to hear her voice one more time. Roland stole my heart the day he ripped her from me.

Now, I have healed a Bloodstone warrior, a man who has probably killed Kyanites.

The flame of bitterness scorches my stomach and flares through my veins as I flee the bedchamber. Near a wall in my room, I sink to the floor and let out quick breaths. I yank my kyanite necklace from my bodice and grip it.

Roland took Mother from me. I don’t need someone to draw a tapestry scene to remind me of his treachery. He stitched every moment against my chest.

I bring my knees forward, hunch my body, and bury my face against them. Now, I desire a Bloodstone warrior—Gabriel. He’s surrounded in mystery, yet he stirs me.

I should loathe him.

His sword. His legacy. His battle marks.

When I first met him, I was determined to conquer him. Now, I’m left wondering who’s doing the conquering.

“No!”

Bitterness bites into me as I slam my fingers against my left palm, remembering the pain of watching Mother being slaughtered. She’s my reminder to never forget my path. It’s mine. Nobody can ever take it from me.

Not even Gabriel.