Chapter 42 #2
An enormous bed dominated the center of the chamber, piled high with crimson silk pillows and framed by gauzy curtains.
Long ribbons of black and gold silk hung from the ceiling beams, disappearing into polished brass rings.
A velvet swing suspended from thick chains occupied one corner beside a chaise lounge piled high with cushions, all of it reflected in the mirrored wall opposite.
My gaze moved to the thick bedposts. Metal restraints had been built directly into the wood.
“Oh my gods.” I made an inarticulate sound of outrage, and heard him huff behind me.
Slowly, against my better judgment, I looked upward. A mirror covered the entirety of the ceiling.
I slapped a hand over my eyes. “Oh, that is disgusting.”
“Don't worry, Eidra.” I spun toward the calm sound of his voice. His fingers worked at the clasp of his cloak. “I have no plans of sharing a bed with you.”
I opened my mouth to retort, just as he swept the cloak off his shoulders, exposing his bare torso. Any words I had died before they ever reached my lips.
Good Gods…
His body was hard and chiselled, broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, every line of him sharply defined.
Pale traces of salt clung to his skin, highlighting the ridges and hollows of muscle.
A fine trail of dark hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers, framed by the angular cut of his hips. I flushed at the sight.
Rìan seemed entirely unaware of the effect he was having.
Or perhaps he simply didn't care. He crossed to the washstand beside the door.
A ceramic basin sat atop it, filled with fresh water.
Scooping up a handful, he bent and splashed it over his face before dragging wet fingers back through his hair.
Then he soaked a cloth in the basin and ran it absently over his neck, shoulders, and chest, wiping away the remaining crust from the flats.
I couldn’t tear my gaze away. His muscles flexed and rolled beneath his skin with every movement, powerful and fluid, carrying an almost predatory grace.
I remained rooted where I stood as he crossed to a dresser and opened a drawer. He rifled through it before pulling out a bundle of clothes and tossing them unceremoniously onto the bed.
“Dress,” he ordered. As though I wasn't standing three feet away, he turned his back to me and stripped off his soaked trousers. I looked away so fast I nearly wrenched my neck. Behind me came the unmistakable rustle of fabric as he changed.
Keeping my gaze firmly averted, I sidled toward the bed and reached for the bundle of clothes. And realized the sodden shirts were still clutched in my hands.
Gods.
I stared at them in horror, suddenly remembering I'd spent the better part of the day sucking on the hem of Rìan's shirt.
I stifled a groan, dropped both garments onto the floor with a wet slap, and snatched up the fresh clothes instead.
The fabric was impossibly soft beneath my fingers—a cream-colored shirt that fell nearly to my knees and a pair of charcoal drawstring trousers.
I risked a glance over my shoulder, checking that he was still facing away from me. His back remained turned. He'd already pulled on a pair of pants and was tying them at his waist, a simple black shirt slung over one shoulder.
Quickly, I stripped off my own wet clothes. As I reached for the clean garments folded on the chair, my gaze snagged on my reflection in the mirrored wall.
Gods. A film of salt coated my skin. It clung to my cheeks and forehead, traced the curve of my jaw, and had even gathered inside my ears.
Strands of hair stuck out in every direction, stiff with it.
Crossing the room in three quick steps, I hurried to the washstand.
When I rinsed away the worst of it, I reached for the clean clothes.
The trousers felt like heaven when I tugged them on. Warm. Soft. Dry. I nearly sighed with relief. I didn't even mind that they were two sizes too big and that I had to roll the waistband several times to keep them from sliding off my hips.
My shirt posed a different problem. The band wrapped around my chest was drenched enough that it would soak through any clean fabric.
Keeping my back to Rìan, I unwound it and draped it carefully over the swing to dry, trying very hard not to think about who had used it before me—or for what purpose.
Unfortunately, I glanced up at the mirrored wall in front of me to find Rìan staring at me.
“Excuse me!” I yanked the shirt to my chest.
But he didn't look away, didn't even look ashamed at being caught.
“Your bargain mark...” His voice trailed off.
He wasn't looking at my chest at all. His attention was fixed entirely on my back.
Confusion swiftly replaced my embarrassment. Twisting toward the mirror, I strained to look over my shoulder. “My bargain mark?”
But Rìan was already moving. He crossed the room in a handful of strides, his attention locked onto me. “Rìan, what are—”
Without waiting for me to finish, he caught my arm and spun me back toward the mirror.
I stumbled, catching myself with one hand against the glass, the other still gripping the shirt desperately to my chest. I tried to straighten, but his hand settled against the nape of my neck, keeping me firmly in place.
“Hold still.”
His fingers brushed my skin, trailing down my spine. Instantly, every nerve in my body sharpened at once, painfully aware of the roughness of his calluses beneath his feather-light touch. His eyes followed the path of his hand lower.
A shiver slipped through me before I could stop it, my back arching instinctively beneath his fingertips.
His gaze snapped to mine in the mirror. "It’s glowing."
"Glowing?" I echoed weakly, my thoughts scattered.
His hand stilled. "Can I touch it?"
I swallowed. "Aren't you already?"
“No.” His thumb shifted, pressing into the center of the mark. We both gasped as a sudden jolt shot through me, racing down my spine and exploding through my body. His voice was ragged. "But now I am."
I could feel it—impossibly. My magic.
I thought it had been drained during our trek through the salt flats, but it was still there, swirling on my back, just beneath the surface of my skin.
I knew the shape of the mark without looking. My magic had taken its form.
Beneath the slow movement of his fingertips, it spread from the bargain mark in warm, languid currents.
The glow brightened his face. His hand stilled and his head dipped slightly, dark hair falling across his brow as his eyes fluttered closed.
A rough sound escaped him, low and unguarded, and heat unfurled through me in response.
“I… can feel it.” His words emerged almost breathless.
I fought the wild urge to lean into his touch, but before I could, he withdrew his hand.
The loss of contact shattered the spell. I turned too quickly, my back meeting the mirror with a soft thud.
“How?” The question was easier to focus on than his phantom touch. “How is this possible?”
The shirt he'd found remained forgotten somewhere behind him, leaving him bare-chested.
Pressed against the mirror, I had nowhere to go but up—my gaze climbing from the broad expanse of his chest to the strong column of his neck, and finally to his face.
The scrap of ivory fabric shielding my chest suddenly felt woefully inadequate.
From this close, I could see every detail—the fullness of his lashes, the thin scar cutting through one eyebrow.
His eyes weren't simply dark but a rich, earthy brown.
The silver flecks that normally peppered them were gone, leaving his gaze startlingly open and expressive.
Unable to hold that stare without feeling something tighten inside me, I dropped my gaze.
Which was a terrible mistake.
My attention snagged on his mouth instead, on lips I now knew could curve into a devastating smile, one that revealed the deep hollow of a dimple and transformed his entire face into something unfairly beautiful.
The realization sent a fresh wave of heat through me.
As though he were only just becoming aware of how little space remained between us, his gaze drifted over my face, tracing the line of my jaw, my cheekbones, my mouth, before dropping to the hollow of my throat and the curve of my collarbones.
The magic should have been the most unsettling thing in the room.
Instead it was the fact that, despite every warning bell sounding in my head, despite every reason I had to keep my distance from him, some reckless part of me was far more aware of how close he was standing than of the impossible discovery we'd just made.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he took a step back. The clench in my stomach eased, and I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
“Your magic is intelligent.”
“What does that even mean?” My voice came out embarrassingly thin.
“Rather than be drained by the salt, it hid inside the bargain mark itself.”
I stared at him. “It can do that?”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “Yours can, apparently.”
“But you said salt—”
“Drains magic,” he interrupted. “It does.
A wielder's power begins weakening the moment they step onto the flats.
But bargain magic is different. A struck bargain channels something far older than ordinary power—magic as ancient and enduring as the Veins themselves.
It can't be weakened or tampered with. Your magic knew exactly where to hide.”
“Have you ever heard of magic doing that before?”
“No.” He shook his head. “But Eidrae magic learns.”
I swallowed. “And when you... felt it just now?” I asked carefully, trying not to think about the low groan that had escaped him when he’d touched me.
His eyes darkened. “It… stirred my own.”
The words were simple—the way he said them was not.
Rìan seemed to realize it at the same moment I did. He stooped to retrieve the discarded shirt from the floor and pulled it over his head before turning away and presenting me with his back.