Chapter Forty-Eight #2
I turn away to face the trees, then fold my skirts into a ball and hold the mass under my chin. Then curse Drusilla for dressing me in the most ridiculous uniform for a journey like this, with the effort it takes to undo the ties on the front of my pants in this position.
Once I complete the task I would have much preferred to do without my Guards standing nearby, I huff in annoyance at the challenge of having to hold my skirts in order to secure the pant strings. Muttering under my breath, I do the best I can when a twig snaps.
I snap my head to the side and find Drusilla staring back at me—though it seems more as if she sees straight through me, with the indiscernible expression she wears so regularly. Her bright white skin gleams where the moon hits it, and an unfamiliar spark lights in her gray eyes.
A groan of frustration tears from me as I stand before trudging back toward the road.
An emotion which builds when Drusilla falls in to walk alongside me until we reach the carriage.
She stays silent the whole way before taking hold of the handle to climb into the coach, where she settles into the same seat she’s maintained the whole journey.
I reach for the handle, then pause when my hand lands on a warm palm instead. Heat spreads under my skin, alerting me to the identity of its owner without needing to turn and look.
Varic growls deep and low as he leans over me, pressing his chest to my shoulder. His hand abandons my own to take hold of my hips, halting my movement with his fingers digging in.
My chest heaves with a newfound fury, and I open my mouth to protest when his lips—then his teeth—brush the shell of my ear as he whispers, “Wait,” for the second time this evening.
I raise my shoulder to stave off the sparks scattering along my skin. “Drusilla is the only one inside, and you’re right here. I am perfectly safe.”
“That is for me to determine, and I say we stick to protocol.”
“You’re being commanding for no good reason, being stubborn just like your Dragon.”
Varic’s hands cast upward to curve around my waist as his cheek presses into my hair.
“I do not trust her, and I will not risk your safety by allowing you to climb in with her alone.” He flexes his fingers as they drag back down to my hips, and I gasp when he picks me up off the stairs and sets me before him.
I freeze in place when the heat of his chest envelops my back, then he leans down to whisper, “Besides, isn’t it in everyone’s best interest if we pretend to be at odds with each other?”
My mouth drops open, then his lip casts over my ear again, indicating he’s not finished.
“Otherwise, don’t you think she would report us simply for sitting next to each other?”
His hands slide off my body, leaving sparks in their wake.
Then he maneuvers around me, only to pause on the first step.
“Please do not make this any more difficult or complicated than it needs to be.” His voice is loud enough to ensure she hears him as we apparently pretend to be more at odds than we are.
And even if the sensation roaring through my body is a mere amplification of his annoyance at my breaking protocol, it does little to temper the rage searing through my veins. Burning so hot, it’s as if my entire body has burst into flames.
Yet I cannot allow him to think he has won this. And I refuse to take any of my other Guards’ hands, which requires me to pay closer attention so I can make it over the threshold without pitching forward. Since that would result in me landing in the lap of the sorcerer inciting my ire.
The one who seems to be vying for the title of ‘most incorrigible’ as he makes everything infinitely more complicated and difficult by angling his body within the corner of my bench, where he places a pillow in his lap and then pats it, appearing as if he truly despises me, though it couldn’t possibly convince anyone as discerning as Drusilla.
Except her expression lifts in pure satisfaction as she observes our exchange, prompting me to question everything.
Regardless of his aim, every fiber of my being yearns to sit opposite him. To be the most stubborn in refusing to do as he beckons. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of being able to call me out for the action.
Instead, I hold onto the doorframe and step inside, then huff out a breath when my hand instinctively fits within Varic’s, though I didn’t notice him offer it. I avoid his gaze as Lars brackets my hips, helping to guide this overwrought bundle of nerves we call a body.
Varic’s expression is neutral while I settle in next to him, and my magic detects his iron-clad mental wards. An action which feels oddly pinching. Though he may not be hiding anything, he deserves to have some privacy.
Lars waves as he backs out of the coach before he and Malin take their positions to guard from the outside. Fray climbs in next, passing our knees to plop down on the other side of Drusilla.
Cirrin closes the carriage door after him, and I furrow my brow in question as he takes the open space next to Drusilla with a shrug.
“You need to rest,” Cirrin says.
My nostrils flare as I scoot further from Varic, greedily taking up the space left by Cirrin’s defection.
Varic scoffs as the heat from his gaze climbs up from the center of my chest, and I try to ignore him by stacking pillows to prop myself up against.
Malin leans across the front window, taking his turn to be by the horses. He raps the roof twice as a courtesy to let us know before the carriage lurches forward.
Jostling shakes me awake. I slowly push up from the bench to look out the window, then bolt upright when I realize where my head has been lying.
“Good morning.” Varic’s voice is warm with a hint of playfulness.
“Is it?” My sleepiness is evident in my tone, to which Fray seems to laugh, though his eyes are fixed on something outside the window.
He holds the sketchpad and pencil between his fingers with so little tension that either or both will surely fall to the floor the next time we run over a bump in the road.
I huff out a breath and keep from looking at Varic, sensing some sort of frenetic energy coming from him. The same he’s been carrying since our argument, without the opportunity to step away and finish our discussion.
Cirrin hands me a glass bottle of water, having already pulled back the stopper.
“Thank you.” I smile over at him and take it in hand, then tilt it back to obscure my staring over at where my seatmate’s leg bounces much faster than usual.
He surprises me—and I nearly choke on the water I just took in—when he thrusts his hand across the aisle at Fray and asks, “May I?”
Fray’s black brows meet in the center before his expression shifts to one of amusement as he eagerly passes the sketchbook over to Varic.
“And the pencil, please.”
Mischief swirls behind Fray’s eyes as he eagerly complies with the request, peering from Varic, then over to me.
Varic crosses his legs at the ankle to create a makeshift table, and I can’t help but stare over as he flips through the pages, each one filled with strikingly accurate portraits of all of us.
Cirrin, Lars, Malin, Varic, and myself. My heart swells with the nuanced intimacy of this practice, proving just how well he knows each of us to be able to convey our likeness in such delicate lines carefully placed over the pages.
Fray’s intricate level of understanding shows as he captures our essence, not just our expressions.
Then my throat constricts. Because I wasn’t prepared for the moment—no matter how much I should have expected it—when Varic pauses on a portrait of Hendry.
Tears sting along my lashes with the realization this may have been the last time Fray ever drew him.
I choke back a laugh when I study the way his brows furrow in such a serious expression.
So quintessentially Hendry. Ever my intense guardian.
Varic clears his throat before flipping further back, and my heart jolts when he pauses again.
This time, to study a sketch with his own head cocked to the side while he stares over my sleeping form.
His expression is one of love and adoration as he cradles my head where it rests over his leg.
He drapes his other hand so carefully over my hip, as if he yearns to hold me closer, while resigning himself to whatever contact he is allowed.
Or, as if he needs more of me but hesitates to take it, judging from the gentle tension in his fingers holding me with such heart-aching tenderness.
Varic releases a breath as his eyes trace over the lines, appearing to memorize this moment of peace our talented friend has frozen in time for us.
Then he closes his eyes, and something in this gesture pulls me toward him.
Yet I dare not make contact. Not wanting to startle him—when he does so on his own—his eyes flaring open to flip through the pages until he finds a blank one toward the end of the sketchbook.
He quickly scribbles something, then slams it shut over his pointer finger, which he keeps in as a page marker, before thrusting it before my chest.
Anxious energy ripples between our bodies as I place my own finger within the gap to ensure I open it where he intends and pull the soft black leather book from his shaking hand.
My hands mirror his and tremble uncontrollably as I carefully fold back the pages to read the words he seems so eager for me to see—
‘You’re wrong, Tasch.’