Page 172 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Roremar treaded water a few feet away, his eyes sparkling. “All right, Huntress?”

“Better than.” Her skin was buzzing, magic pounding with excitement.

She swam toward a break in the rushing water, propping herself on the rocks forming a ledge between two curtains of falls. The facade of the rocky cliffs was carved with caves, the waterfalls shadowing their depths and plants wrapping the space between. The cliffs towered so high, they were entirely alone down here.

There was a light in Roremar’s eyes as he swam up to her, and it took her back to the night they’d swam in the ocean beyond his family home. When they’d been plagued by a mysterious killer and he’d been worried about providing for his family, but for a moment he’d let it all go and lived with her.

Roremar stopped between her legs with his hands on her knees. That spark of mischief made her wish they could stay like this for longer than tonight. Forsake the world and the Fates and be together.

“It’s odd that Rocarri told you now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Roremar said. “I can’t figure out why. Especially given he’s still holding you hostage.”

Emmeline hummed in agreement. Rocarri hadn’t set them free. If anything, he’d only pressed harder on their wounds these past few days.

It didn’t add up.

“I’m sorry for not telling you,” she said, brushing his sopping hair back from his brow. “I wanted to, but I’ve felt trapped. Rocarri…he’s been messing with my head. Reminding me how much of a threat my magic poses. Made me wonder if I’m better off alone because of it.”

“I know you didn’t want to hide it.” Roremar sighed, muscles in his forearms flexing as he rubbed warmth into her thighs. “I’m not mad at you.”

“You seemed it on the ride out here.”

“Not at you,” he repeated, holding her stare. “And you’re wrong about your magic. It’s not a curse. They’re trying to make you believe that so it will be easier for them to control you.”

His certainty had her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes burned. Deep down, she’d known that, but hearing Roremar say it so plainly sparked a fire within her.

Emmeline didn’t think as she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek, an inch to the right of his lips, so close to breaking the boundary she’d set. His breath hitched, a sound more intimate than anything she’d heard from him.

When she pulled back, Roremar’s gaze was tracking down her body. Stopping where her silk chemise clung to her breasts, nipples pebbled from the cold. He looked ready to lean forward and taste her, but Emmeline knew her willpower wouldn’t survive that.

She cleared her throat. “Let’s find the Fates, Reckless.”

He shook his head as if to clear it, swimming around her and pushing up onto the ledge as Emmeline stood and wrung water from her hair. The stones around them darkened with the puddles sloughing off their skin, but the rock almost seemed to shimmer.

Choosing randomly, Emmeline peered behind the waterfall to their right.

“This one is shallow,” she called to Roremar as mist flecked her skin.

His shadow and scent surrounded her as he looked over her shoulder, the warmth welcome against her damp body, but the nearness didn’t scare her now.

Once, it was foreign. Then, it was forbidden. Tonight, she devoured it.

Roremar looked from the alcove to the ledge across it, caves dipping in and out of the rock. “Let’s use it to cross to the outcrop over there. One of these has to lead somewhere.”

They followed the predestined pathways as best they could, some carving stairs up and some dropping them back down so their feet were submerged in the water. As they walked, Emmeline counted the waterfalls rimming the crescent, and awareness buzzed through her.

“There’s twelve of them?” she asked, eyes flicking between the falls and the constellations above.

“Yes,” Roremar said, following her theory. “And Wisteria Falls is tied strongly to legends of the Fates.”

“It has to be one for each, right? Like the districts.”

“Safe guess.”

Emmeline tipped her head to the tallest, forcing her stare to focus past the water to the rock beneath, picking it apart. From this distance and with the force of the falls, it was hard to tell, but she thought she made out carvings in the stone. Jagged scratches, almost like⁠—

“Lightning bolts,” she breathed, grasping Roremar’s arm at the symbol of the Fate of Storms and Peaceful Stretches.