Book 7: The Healing Waters

Ella

It’s odd seeing Ryatt in plain clothes. He doesn’t fit here, I realize, as I watch him turn his gaze from the strangers seated nearby back to the water all around us. He’s been silent since we walked onto the ferry that runs between the isles and Maatua.

I wish I could take a peek into his mind, just for a moment, just long enough to know what he’s thinking.

He’s dressed in navy blue athletic shorts that are a smidge too short for him, resting mid-thigh and showing off his insanely built muscular legs. His tan skin gleams in the sunlight poking through the somewhat shredded canopy above us, which is supposed to block out not only the sun, but the rain.

He’s wearing a plain gray shirt–again, a little too tight–that shows off every muscle. He looks… hot. Hot as hell, honestly. But also so unfamiliar without his black leathers and belt loaded with daggers. His night-black hair curls around his ears as he slowly turns to me, expressionless,