LYRA
The climb back up the cliff path was a silent one. Probably for the best.
The steps were so narrow, we ascended single file. I led, wringing out the hem of Zeviar’s damp shirt as I went. Orion followed close behind me, Zeviar behind him. The ocean wind swept away any sound that might have betrayed our quiet. By the time we reached the summit, my feet were numb with cold, my hair slicked my face with water, and the mark between my breasts, which had been burning fiercely, had subsided into a low, steady warmth. It felt like a message delivered, now patiently waiting.
The villa welcomed us without a word.
Upstairs, I found the bathroom and the blessed relief of a hot shower. Four minutes under the spray was all it took to realize the water pressure in Zeviar’s private villa was almo
