Desire watches him from behind this angelic disguise, and truthfully, it is one of her favorite places to be. To be masked as a trusted face, to be handed the key into someone else’s soul, and they are none the wiser.
It is different with him, though.
He does not look at her quite in the way that she had expected. In fact, he does not seem to recognize her at all, and for a heart-stopping moment, she wonders if her illusion has faltered. A glimpse of the gold-tipped wings at her sides reassures her that this is not the case, and her dark eyes look back to him. “What do you mean?” She is mindful to keep the accusation from her tone, her face still one of artfully crafted concern, though inwardly she is agitated at this slip in her plan.
It is tempting to be irritated with him for not falling perfectly into this intricately made trap. She wishes that she could tap into his mind instead of just into his useless heart—fickle, troublesome things that they were. This is not the first and likely not the last time one has let her down.
She steals a step forward, her head still down, and she peers up at him from beneath her long, dark lashes. “I’m Ryatah. We’ve been friends for years.” She laughs, a sweet, short sound, a demure kind of smile pulling at her lips. “Although, I think it would be safe to say that we are—or were—more than friends.”
Desire pauses, catching his gaze with hers, and she is careful to mask her sick curiosity with worry when she asks him, “What happened to you? Why don’t you remember me?”