“Get out.” He nearly breathes the muted command. The room is void of air, void of sound. The heat returns to my hands, so I cross my arms and point my nose in the air.

“No.”

He growls under his breath. “You need to leave. Now.”

My heartbeat escalates, but I hold firm. “You can go if you like. I’m enjoying my drink.”

His lips curl into a snarl, and satisfaction ripples through me.

His icy blue eyes pin me like frozen spears of rain. “I will throw these bottles at you, Verdanian. Do not tempt me.”

I laugh and take another swig. “I’ll just throw them right back at you, Baellilean.” I watch him intently; he now knows my words can cut more sharply than glass. The liquid tickles my throat as it goes down. “Besides, it’s not very bandit-like of you to waste alcohol, wouldn't you say?”

His expression is positively feral, one I’ve never seen and very well may never see again.

“Idalia.”

My name sounds like a threat.

The hair on my arms rises, but I won’t show my trepidation. I can’t show it. Not now.

“I’m going to ask you one more time…”

“Or what?” I place the half-empty bottle on the ground. “What are you going to do, Braizen? If you touch me, you’ll die before you can take out your anger. Not that we need to touch for you to hurt me. You’ve done plenty of that in our time together.”

His face softens for a fraction of a second before it twists back into rage.

“The gods blessed you the day they cursed us, because if I could touch you right now, I’d…”

“You’d what?” My tone is frigid; an unmovable stone rests behind each word.

His gaze darts up, locks in on mine, and his pupils dilate. Another burst of heat lances through me. Closer, it whispers.

Slowly I bring my foot forward, monitoring his reaction. The light from the sconces warms his face, but his eyes reflect their flames. He’s so angry with me, and to be fair, I am livid too. It’s his fault we experienced the horrors of The Wood. I was better when I didn’t know him. When he was just a memory.

“What would you do if you could touch me, Braizen?” My question is a tiny breeze, one that also carries my scent.

Closer.

His eyes are narrow slits as he watches with an ungodly concentration as I draw nearer.

“Are you afraid?” I ask. Another step.

Closer.

Another.

We’re six inches apart. I can hear his breath quicken.

“I’m not afraid of you, Sparrow,” he says finally. His shoulders sink, and his jaw unclenches. To my surprise, he shuffles forward.

Five inches apart.

“I’m utterly terrified.”