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She knew precisely how his bedroom smelled. She had spent a single day lying beside him in his room, and everything about the experience had been unforgettable.

Although now was not the time to remember what had happened between them in that big bed of his when he’d been asleep. Hard enough to be in his company with a whole room between them and people out in the foyer. To add those moments when he’d pressed his naked body to hers—

"Did you enjoy your dinner?” he asked, taking a sip from his glass.

“Yes, indeed. And you, your grace?”

He was about to reply when John Matthew appeared behind him.

The Primale turned to the young male and smiled. “Hey, my man. Glad you’re here.”

John Matthew looked across the library at her and lifted his hand in greeting.

She was relieved by the choice. She didn’t know John any more than she knew the others, but he was quiet during meals. Which made his size not quite as intimidating as it would have been if he’d been loud.

She bowed to him. “Your grace.”

As she straightened, she felt his eyes on her and she wondered what he saw. Female or Chosen?

What an odd thought.

“Well, you two visit.” The Primale’s brilliant golden eyes shifted her way. “I’m on duty tonight, so I’ll be out.”

Fighting, she thought, with a stab of fear.

She wanted to rush over to him and tell him to be safe, but that was not her place, was it? She was barely his First Mate, for one thing. For another, he was the strength of the race and hardly needed her concern.

The Primale clapped John Matthew on the shoulder, nodded at her, and left.

Cormia leaned to the side so she could watch the Primale going up the staircase. His gait was smooth as he went along, in spite of his missing limb and his prosthesis. He was so tall and proud and lovely, and she hated that it would be hours before he would return.

When she glanced back, John Matthew was over at the desk, taking out a small pad and a pen. As he wrote, he held the paper close to his chest, his big hands curling up. He looked much younger than the size of his body suggested while he labored over his letters.

She’d seen him communicate with his hands on those rare occasions he had something to say at the table, and it dawned on her that perhaps he was a mute.

He turned the pad to her with a wince, as if he were not impressed with what he’d written. Do you like to read? This library has lots of good books.

She looked up into his eyes. What a lovely blue color they were. “What is the difficulty of your voice? If I may ask.”

No difficulty. I took a vow of silence.

Ah . . . she remembered. The Chosen Layla had said he’d taken such a pledge.

“I see you using your hands to talk,” she said.

American Sign Language, he wrote.

“It’s an elegant way of communicating.”

It gets the job done. He wrote some more and then flashed the pad again. I’ve heard the Other Side is very different. Is it true it’s all white?

She lifted the skirting of her robe as if to give an example of what is was like where she was from. “Yes. White is all we have.” She frowned. “All we need, rather.”

Do you have electricity?

“We have candles, and we do things by hand.”

Sounds old-fashioned.

She wasn’t sure what he meant by that. “Is that bad?”

He shook his head. I think it’s cool.

She knew the term from the dinner table, but still didn’t understand why temperature would have anything to do with an apparently positive value judgment.

“It’s all I know.” She went over to one of the tall, narrow doors that had glass panes. “Well, until now.”

Her roses were so close, she thought.

John whistled, and she looked over her shoulder at the pad he was holding face-out. Do you like it here at all? he’d written. And please know you can tell me you don’t. I won’t judge.

She fingered her robe. “I feel so different from everyone. I am lost in the conversations, though I speak the language.”

There was a long silence. When she glanced back at John, he was writing, his hand pausing every once in a while, as if he were choosing a word. He crossed something out. Wrote some more. When he was