Page 29 of Stealing Tink

I turn to face the desk and the Nomad. He doesn’t say anything for a long while, just stares at the paintings, until finally he says, “Can you feel it?”

When I raise a brow at him, he reaches out his hand. As soon as his calloused fingers touch my wrist, I flinch, a vision of him taking my wrists and pulling me into him, readying for the kill, flashing before my mind.

He hesitates, a question on his raised brow.

I bury my fears deep before he can ask. There’s another question in his eyes, an asking for permission, and I allow my hand to linger instead of pulling away. Keeping his eyes on me, he takes it. His grip is firm, but softer than I expect. Then he leads my hand over the painting, almost touching, barely hovering.

“Can you feel it?” he asks.

The warmth of his palm seeps into mine. Adrenaline shoots through my veins, my heart racing. It’s just a fear response. Terror at the touch I’ve felt so often—touch that so often ends in my death. But I subdue the fear. There’s no reason for him to kill me until he has the artifact.

“Close your eyes.” His voice is smooth, like cowhide leather.

I look at him like he’s crazy, and he smiles, cocking his head to the side. “Really, Tink—you act as if I want you dead.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, then, unable to resist his dare, close my eyes and try to drown out the feel of his touch. It’s difficult, but eventually I feel it—something else. Not on the back of my hand where our skin meets, but in my palm. A gentle, tingling sensation.

I open my eyes quickly, glancing at him. He smiles, and this time it’s not sly or smirking, but something like quiet pride.

“You feel it too, then,” he says.

I remove my hand from his so I can grab the quill. That’s how you knew the magic hadn’t been stolen.

When I look up at him, I realize his hand is still lingering in midair above the painting, where he’d just been holding mine. I glance away at the same moment he returns his hand to his side.

He clears his throat and nods. “Very good.”

Why can we feel it and they can’t? I write. Venus, of all of us, should have been able to. It’s her magic, after all.

“Who knows?” says the Nomad.

Something tells me he does.

CHAPTER 14

Why we need a heavy to steal from a practically immortal being who’s made entirely of shadows, I have no idea.

However, when I brought this to his attention, the Nomad insisted that every heist needs a heavy. So here we are. In the city of Miinar, the capital of Irethden, about to infiltrate the palace of the most prosperous kingdom in the world.

This will end well.

“You seem nervous,” says the Nomad, leaning down to whisper in my ear. He’s dressed in a dark blue suit, complete with coattails and a vest, which brings out his eyes and makes them even more eerie than usual.

I shift restlessly in my gown. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable wearing gowns like these. In fact, I rather enjoy dressing up. I’d gotten a glimpse of myself in the window of the coach, and I have to admit: I look quite dazzling in the glimmering gold dress that makes my tanned skin and golden hair shimmer as well.

It’s what’s underneath the dress that bothers me. The Nomad had a special binder made for me, one that keeps my wings wrapped securely around my waist. It’s tight enough that my wings are invisible underneath my dress.

Which would be great if it weren’t for the minor issue of breathing.

Corsets might have gone out of fashion ten years ago, but this benefits me none.

“Nervous?” the Nomad asks.

I glance down at the leather pad he procured for this very occasion. I’d be less nervous if we were trying to steal the crown jewels.

“I’d rather you not put that in writing.” He nods toward my parchment. “It’s rather condemning if we get searched.”

I offer him a rather caustic smirk and make a show of ripping the paper, popping it into my mouth, and swallowing in an exaggerated manner. If I’m being completely honest, it tastes better than I expected and dissolves easily.