Page 18 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“That didn’t answer my question.”

At the bite in her voice, his grimace shifted into something playful. “Manners, Miss DeLeoste.”

“Those are reserved for people who don’t show up at my door unexpectedly.”

“And here I thought you’d be thrilled to see me,” Roremar grumbled.

He peered around her shoulder into the bed chamber, and Emmeline shifted to block his gaze. Grey eyes danced with challenge, the long sword strapped to his back gleaming in the light streaming through the balcony doors behind her. The sunbeams highlighted the pattern of dark gems.

Roremar cleared his throat, her attention snapping to his steel eyes. A brow quirked. “We’re meeting this morning, correct?”

“We are, but I was planning to meet you downstairs.” She resisted the urge to close the door just an inch more. He seemed to notice every slight movement she made, and she didn’t want to give him any advantage. “You’re early.”

“Are you not ready?” Roremar’s stare dragged down her body, from her eyes to the embroidered hem of her skirt, silver thread crafting whirling patterns in the dove-blue fabric. His plain black tunic creased as he folded his arms, rings decorating a couple fingers on each hand and tattoos peeking out beneath the cuffs he had rolled to his elbows. Based on the patterns of the ink, Emmeline thought some of them might be Fate sigils, but she forced her gaze up.

“Almost,” Emmeline admitted. His answering smirk was smug, as if he’d known she’d also be ready early. “Give me a moment.”

“I’ll wait, Miss DeLeoste.”

Roremar remained leaning against the doorway, so she was forced to leave it open as she finished packing her satchel with the emergency incense and oils she liked to keep on hand.

She’d wanted to beat him downstairs, dammit. Wanted to try to catch him off guard after how closely he seemed to study her yesterday. But the self-satisfied air rolling off him said I’ve been waiting for ages.

She’d even pulled herself from bed an hour earlier than usual to light her incense and siphon off some pressing readings while she’d washed and dressed. She wrapped a silk jacket tight around her torso, bell sleeves cascading past her hands, and slid a triple-blade into her bag, another dagger already in her boot.

Steps thudded through the room, and Emmeline whipped around. “What are you doing?”

Roremar stood at her balcony doors, lacy ivory curtains framing him before the tiled space covered in flowers and herbs. “You planted all of those?”

“Yes,” she answered, lifting her chin. The six-foot square wasn’t much to work with, but Emmeline had learned as a young girl how important it was to keep your own fortune reading supplies on hand. She hadn’t always had the opportunity to grow them herself, but once she settled here, she did what she could.

Bundles of lavender were dehydrating in one corner where the sun beams didn’t reach, herbs grew on the windowsill, and she’d planted a variety of other useful flowers on the balcony.

She waited for a comment from Roremar about the Academy having their own stores and the apothecaries not being far, but all he said was, “It’s an impressive collection.”

“Thank you,” she said, the genuine compliment softening her exterior.

As he turned back around, eyes drifting over the room—the books stacked on her desk beneath the window, the tattered drawings and poems pinned over her bed in the little alcove on the left side, and even her range of cloaks by the door—she couldn’t help but feel as though he was memorizing everything. Tucking each small detail away.

What is he seeing in this room?

Whatever it was, it was more personal than she was prepared to reveal. He was Fatesdamned observant, and while Emmeline fidgeted beneath that intense precision, she also couldn’t deny that his keen guard would be an asset.

“Are you done, Reckless?” she asked.

His attention snapped to her, heat in his grey eyes, and he growled, “Let’s go.”

He didn’t say another word as they strode down the corridor and took the stairs leading from the instructor dormitories to the main Academy. His abrupt exit lashed through Emmeline like a scolding.

“Are you living in these quarters?” Emmeline hedged, gesturing to the darkened stairway behind her with the hand gripping the strap of her leather satchel. Vials of tinctures and herbs clinked together inside.

Roremar’s eyes dropped to the bag. “No. I have another residence. My—” His lips snapped shut. “Falliare said I don’t have to stay here so long as I make all the lessons I’m supposed to teach and am able to keep an eye on you.”

Emmeline narrowed her stare at his last statement. Hopefully he wouldn’t be keeping too close an eye. She had her own agenda to attend to, and she’d be damned to the Spirit Realm before she allowed this man to interfere with it and disrupt all the hard work she’d been doing to track down traders from the continent.

“We should get going,” she stated, not commenting on his assignment to watch her.

With a grunt, Roremar turned down the wide corridor, boots echoing on the pale, aged stone that comprised most of the Academy. But while he passed a painting depicting a fallen Angel, blackened stars streaming from its wings, and nearly reached the archway at the end of the corridor, Emmeline paused in the middle.