Chapter 8 #3
Maybe it’s just a fluke. Maybe my body has finally started healing naturally after getting enough protein. Maybe the fever broke the infection’s hold, and everything is finally working the way it should.
I want to ask him about it, but every time I glance at his profile, I remember how he likes to needle me. He’d probably just make some cutting comment about my overactive imagination or tell me I was delirious from fever. The thought of his condescending expression makes my jaw clench.
“Jerk,” I mutter under my breath, kicking at a fallen branch.
“What was that?”
I keep my eyes straight ahead. “Nothing.”
“Did you just call me a jerk?” His voice carries that edge I’m starting to recognize.
“No.” I adjust my grip on my walking stick, though I barely need it anymore. “You must be hearing things.”
He stops walking, and I realize I’ve made a tactical error. When I turn to face him, his blue eyes flash with irritation and insult.
“Hearing things?” he repeats slowly.
“Well, yeah. I wasn’t talking to you.” I shrug, trying to look innocent. “Maybe you should see a healer about that when we reach civilization.”
“My hearing is perfect.”
“If you say so.” I start walking again, but he catches up to me in two long strides.
“I know exactly what I heard.”
“Then, why did you ask?” I shoot back, my own temper flaring. “If your hearing is so perfect, you shouldn’t need me to repeat myself.”
“So, you admit you called me a jerk.”
“I admit nothing.” I pick up my pace, but it’s pointless—his legs are twice as long as mine. “Maybe you’re just paranoid.”
“Paranoid?” His voice drops to that low tone that makes my pulse quicken. “About what?”
“About people talking about you behind your back. Which, considering your charming personality, probably happens a lot.”
I hear him make a sound that might be a growl, and suddenly his hand is on my arm, spinning me around to face him. We’re standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, close enough that I can smell his piney, masculine scent that makes my head spin.
“My personality is perfectly fine,” he says, his voice a low rumble.
“Says who?” I challenge him, my heart hammering against my ribs. “You?”
“I don’t get any complaints.”
“Maybe people are too scared to complain.” I know I should stop pushing, but something about the way he’s looking at me makes me feel reckless. “You are pretty intimidating.”
“Pretty intimidating?” He leans closer, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “Just ‘pretty?’”
“Well, you’re also arrogant. And bossy. And you have this annoying habit of thinking you’re always right.”
His eyes narrow. “Anything else?”
“You’re lucky you’ve got a handsome face and good fighting skills,” I blurt out, then instantly wish I could take the words back.
But instead of the sharp retort I expect, there’s a shift in his expression. A smug look settles across his features, transforming them from intimidating to devastatingly attractive.
“You think I’m handsome?” he asks, his voice carrying a note of male satisfaction that makes heat flood my cheeks.
“I–I—” I stammer, realizing I’ve walked straight into a trap. “That’s not the point.”
“It sounded like the point to me.” Lucian looks incredibly full of himself now, and it’s doing things to my insides that I don’t have names for. “You said I have a handsome face.”
“I said you’re lucky you have one,” I correct him weakly. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” He leans even closer, and his breath ghosts across my cheek. “Because it sounded like you were complimenting my appearance.”
My face feels like it’s on fire. “You’re insufferable.”
“But handsome,” he says, and the lack of humility in his voice makes me want to smack him.
“You’re also incredibly arrogant,” I snap, trying to regain some control of this conversation. “I give you one tiny compliment, and it goes straight to your head.”
“One tiny compliment?” His eyebrows rise. “You called me handsome and praised my fighting skills. That’s at least two compliments.”
“And you’re never going to let me forget it, are you?”
“Probably not.” His expression grows even more smug, and I realize I’ve never seen him look quite this self-satisfied before. It transforms his entire face, making him look incredibly handsome in the most infuriating way possible. “Especially since you also think I hear things and I’m paranoid.”
“You do hear things, and you are paranoid,” I insist, but the words lack conviction. It’s hard to maintain my indignation when he’s looking at me like this.
“But handsome,” he repeats, clearly enjoying himself now.
“Ridiculously handsome,” I mutter, then immediately regret the amendment when he blinks at me and smiles.
“Ridiculously?”
Mortification floods through my entire body.
What is wrong with me? I’ve never acted like this before—babbling about a man’s appearance, getting flustered over a simple touch.
I’ve always prided myself on being practical, level-headed, but something about this mercenary makes me say the most embarrassing things.
“Forget I said anything.” I try to step back, but his hand is still on my arm, keeping me close. “We should keep walking.”
“In a minute.” His grip tightens slightly in an unmistakably possessive way. “You think I’m ridiculously handsome?”
The way he says it—like he’s cataloguing information rather than flirting—makes heat pool low in my stomach. There’s something almost clinical about his question that is somehow more unsettling than if he were simply being charming.
“Lucian…” I try to warn him off, but my voice comes out breathier than I wanted it to.
“And I have good fighting skills.”
“Yes, fine, whatever. You’re attractive and deadly. Are you satisfied now?”
His eyes darken at my choice of words, and I realize too late how that might have sounded. The air between us crackles with something electric and volatile.
“Very,” he says, his voice rough in a way that sends shivers down my spine.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. His gaze is intense—predatory, like he’s deciding whether I’m prey or something else entirely. The silence stretches between us, charged with an awareness that makes my skin feel too tight.
Then, Luna drops from a tree branch onto his shoulder with a loud thud, her claws digging into his shirt for purchase. The spell breaks abruptly.
“Damn cat,” he mutters, but there’s no real annoyance in his voice.
I pull back quickly, my cheeks burning. “We really need to keep moving.”
He releases my arm without protest, but I can feel his gaze tracking my movements as I turn away.
The awareness doesn’t fade; if anything, it intensifies as we resume walking.
Every accidental brush of his fingers when he hands me something or steps close to point out a hazard on the path sends electricity racing through my system.
This is treacherous territory, and not only because of the wild animals in these woods.
“Your leg seems better,” he observes after we’ve walked in tense silence for several minutes.
I glance down at my stride and realize he’s right. I’m barely limping now, and the ache has faded to almost nothing. “It does. I guess the meat helped more than I thought it would.”
He nods, seemingly satisfied with my explanation, before moving ahead to scan the forest with that keen alertness that makes him look every inch the lethal mercenary he is.
I follow behind, trying to ignore the way my eyes keep drifting to the broad line of his shoulders, the fluid way he moves through the underbrush. This man saved my life, and now he’s protecting me for a handful of silver coins. I should be grateful, not...whatever this is.
But as we continue deeper into the forest, I can’t shake the strange flutter in my chest every time he looks at me or understand why my pulse quickens whenever he’s close. I’ve never felt anything like this before, and I don’t know what to make of it.