Page 43 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

And as she looked out over the jungle from her balcony, she couldn’t help wondering if they were looking back.

Chapter Fourteen

Roremar

The icy water bit at Roremar’s back, his arms plunging in and out with steady strokes.

Those damn hazel eyes.

Her eyes.

They’d plagued him all night as he drowned in a dark haze punctured by flashes of fiery stares. He’d tossed and turned, sheets fucking soaked and slicking to his bare skin until he couldn’t take it anymore. He’d only managed to fall asleep for a couple hours before he was roused once again and finally gave up. He’d peeked into the three other bedrooms at the top of the stairs before creeping out of his family home and striding quickly down the path that cut from the cliffs to the beach.

The sand had been cold beneath his bare feet, but his body was on fucking fire, his blood a living star. Not flowing through him—tunneling. His entire being had been excavated all night long by the beating inferno that was Emmeline DeLeoste’s stare as it bore into him for some Fatesdamned reason.

Even now, with the sharp sting of the waves off the coast of Lyra trying to turn his body to ice, all he could think of was those eyes.

The worst part? He’d only realized last night that it hadn’t been the first time he’d seen it. Emmeline’s hazel eyes had been burning into his subconscious for longer than he’d even known her, like she was some strange, reoccurring dream.

He didn’t know what that meant.

And trying to puzzle it out had driven him crazy. Hence, the sunrise swim.

The ocean had always soothed him. He thought it went back to his father and how they used to sit on the cliffs together. How he’d taught Roremar and his siblings to swim and sail when they could rent small boats from the local dockworkers. Originally from Della, the isle furthest west responsible for naval defense, Roremar’s father, Deacon Silventa, was at home on the sea.

Along the shores of the mainland, the Seawatcher clan were responsible for guarding the coasts, but they—like other warriors—had neglected the Constellation Isles for as long as the history books dated back, so they fended for themselves. And while Deacon had moved to Lyra before his Fate tie had even woken, he always claimed his soul ebbed with the tide.

That was a piece of his father Roremar refused to let fade away.

This morning, though, for the first time, the methodic swim wasn’t fucking working. He couldn’t get those damn eyes out of his mind. It was like Des had snuck inside his head and tattooed them on his fucking memory.

Growling, Roremar waded back to shore and toweled off, shaking his head so droplets of water sprinkled dark specks along the white sand. He dug his feet into the cool ground, praying to any damn Fate or Angel that would listen that his dad might send him a sign. Help him figure out…any of this mess.

But the stars had already gone to sleep for the day, and while the Starsearcher Angel, Valyrie, walked Ambrisk, who in the Spirits’ names knew where she was.

With the pleas for his father, guilt ripped a hole wide in his chest. Shivers more powerful than anything the ocean wrought in him wracked his body.

His hands were sticky. Vision blurry with dark spots.

Breathing through the knife in his chest, lungs attempting to seize, Roremar pressed a hand to the letters tattooed on his ribs. He turned his back on the ocean and climbed toward the house, pretending he was ready to battle another day.

He had to be.

The rickety kitchen door rattled shut behind Roremar just as his stomach grumbled.

“Bit early for a mess,” Nico joked, shooting a pointed look at the puddle forming at Roremar’s feet.

“Valyrie’s tits,” he swore.

From her spot beside the wide wash basin, his mother raised an eyebrow at his curse, and he muttered a quick, “Sorry, Mother,” as he dropped his towel from his waist and stooped to mop up the checkered tile.

Dim mystlight reflected on the floor as he cleaned it, drying himself off and draping the towel on the pale wooden worktable when he was done.

His undershorts clung tight to his thighs, the black cotton drenched and finally making him cold for a reason other than his drowning grief. Feeling a bit less numb for it, he crossed the room and poured a glass of blood orange juice. As he drank, he leaned back against the counter, pale green trimming the white tile’s edges and matching the curtains framing the window.

“How was your swim?” His mother yawned, watering eyes lined with exhaustion that twisted Roremar’s chest. He scanned the counter, the fresh loaf of bread and muffins cooling beside him.

“Fine. You haven’t gone to bed yet?”