30. Only One Bed #2
“Better?” Faren asked after a while.
I crunched down on an apple slice. “Getting there.”
“Wine?” he offered.
I shook my head; I felt warm and fuzzy enough. It seemed he’d only asked for my sake, because he left the bottle on the desk, unopened.
The room was dim, lit only by the fireplace and the candle Faren had brought. The inn was quiet, and I suspected that Anya and the rest of her associates were still tending to last-minute preparations elsewhere.
“What did you get up to with our hosts?” I asked.
Faren popped a grape in his mouth. “Moving crates, mostly.”
“I’m sure they were grateful for the help.”
“Seemed like a good way to get into your friends’ good graces.”
“They’re not my—”
“Yeah, yeah. Listen.” Faren set his plate aside. “I’ve been thinking, and if you’d truly prefer it, I can talk to Anya about another room. Or perhaps sleep in the stables if she is indeed not lying about her availability.”
“After all that talk of soft beds, you’d sleep in a cold barn for me?”
“You seem tense. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
If anything, I felt touched. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“How about I sleep on the floor, then?” He stood, gesturing at the thick rug that ran between the foot of the bed and the hearth. “Seems cozy enough.”
I finished my bread, licked my fingers. “Why are you being so nice?”
“Would you prefer I be cruel?”
It would certainly make him less appealing. “I could sleep on the floor,” I said, withering at the idea even as I proposed it. “After all, it’s well established that the Valiant are tougher than the Mighty.”
“Ah yes,” Faren said, “but the Mighty are more chivalrous. Do you think Kieran would let a maiden sleep on the floor?”
“I am no maiden,” I pointed out.
He chuckled. “You really aren’t, are you?”
He came nearer, reaching past me to gather a few pillows and a spare quilt off the bed.
I stepped aside, replacing my empty plate on the tray and pouring myself a cup of water.
While he carried his bedding to the floor, I leaned back against the desk, sipping, watching.
He laid the quilt on the rug and arranged the pillows at one end.
“You can take the furs, too,” I told him, nodding at the heap of pelts at the base of the bed.
“You don’t want them?”
I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t like the feeling.”
“In truth, I don’t, either.” Face scrunching, he gathered the furs and dumped them atop the chair. “Do you think other sorts of magicians are truly so numb that they do not notice how irritatingly ticklish pelts can be?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t understand why anyone would want hair against their skin all night.”
Faren laughed, and—without warning—yanked his shirt over his head.
In the candlelight, his golden skin seemed to glow, etched with shadows along the defined lines of his pecs and abdominals.
Light brown hair dusted his chest, darkening as it neared the band of his trousers.
His was a body honed by training, but unmarred. Flawless.
I’d never put much thought into the aesthetics of my scars and injuries. If anything, I was proud of what they represented: my ability to survive. But Faren’s smooth skin—the privilege of it—made me feel suddenly self-conscious, and also strangely desperate to be seen.
Finishing my water, I turned my back to him, feigning disinterest in his form. I went to my pack in search of a clean shirt. The dressing gown was damp from my hair and too cumbersome to wear to bed.
“How’s your wound from Yar?” I asked casually, still not looking at him. “Do you need more salve?”
“No, it’s good. Almost healed.”
“Good.”
When I turned around again, Faren was lying on his back on the floor. The quilt was draped across his lower half. He had his arms folded behind his head, showing off his biceps. He appeared wholly comfortable.
Still, I had to ask, “Are you sure you—”
“I don’t mind. Truly.” He noticed the shirt I held. “Do you need to change?”
I studied the wad of black fabric in my hand, briefly forgetting why I’d retrieved it. “Yes.”
Faren’s smile was easygoing. “Shall I close my eyes to protect your modesty?” He laid a wrist across his face, shielding his vision.
The room was dark. The candle burned low. The fire had reduced. All day, I’d been feeling powerless in his presence; whatever was sparking between us, I wanted desperately to gain the upper hand. I wanted him to feel as destabilized as I did.
I put my back to him, loosening the tie of the dressing gown, and made my voice cool and casual. “Close your eyes if you want to.”
Seconds passed, and when he spoke again, his voice was gravelly. “Do you want me to?”
“Modesty is for maidens,” I said airily, and slipped the gown off my shoulders.
It fell to the floor in a silken pile. Cool air from the window grazed my bare skin, and I could feel Faren’s attention on my back, heavy in the silence. Without hurry, I tugged the shirt over my head, pulling my hair free of the collar, allowing the hem to settle around my upper thighs.
When I finally glanced over my shoulder, Faren was sitting up among his array of bedding.
His hand rested idly against his inner leg, drawing my attention to the blanket bunched around a noticeable bulge.
His abdominals were flexed, mouth slack.
The perfect mix of relaxed confidence and flustered restraint.
Feeling as if I’d won my little game of feigned indifference, I gave him a slight, disinterested smile and circled the bed. Tucked myself under the covers. Felt smug, until—
“I think,” Faren mused, “that you have the most perfect ass I’ve ever seen.”
A small cough escaped me as I realized my mistake: I was a master at pretending to be dispassionate, but Faren was not.
“I think,” I enunciated coolly, “that you need to practice your flattery.”
“Too blunt?” I couldn’t see him, but his voice filled the room, equal parts charming and sultry. “How would you like me to flatter you?”
“Hmm,” I hummed, pretending to think as I gathered myself. “A storybook hero would wax poetic about my beauty. Craft elaborate metaphors likening me to a sunrise, or a thorny rose, or sparkling winter’s day.”
“I don’t think I can call myself a storybook hero.”
“Afraid you’re not clever enough?”
“I’m afraid my thoughts are too impure.”
I bit the tip of my thumb, then continued my suggestions. “You could speak of my superior intellect. Or my superior fighting skills. Or perhaps my superior—”
“Ass?”
I coughed again, staring at the wooden crossbeams of the ceiling.
“I don’t think you want to be flattered like that,” Faren said. “In truth, I don’t think you want flattery at all.”
“Oh?” I asked haughtily. “What do I want, then?”
“I think you want fact,” he said. “And the fact is, you are superior. In every fucking way, you are superior. Smarter. Faster. Bigger-hearted and more honorable than anyone else I know—and that’s including your criminal transgressions and questionable humor.
” His voice was a low rumble; its resonance made me squeeze my legs together.
“But more than flattery or fact, Mariana,” he rasped, “I think what you really want is to be fu—”
Noise carried from downstairs, raucous voices and the dog barking.
It snapped us out of wherever our conversation had been leading, replacing our flirtation with the sound of footsteps on hardwood, bottles clinking, and cheerful humming as the innkeeper and her friends returned home and retired to their rooms.
Yet the remnants of Faren’s words reverberated through our room like thunder, the air charged and crackling.
I shifted my legs and felt a mortifying amount of slickness between them.
The desire I’d felt in the bath had roused, and as I stared up at the ceiling, I wondered how I might put it back to sleep with Faren lying so close by.
“Can I ask you a question?” Faren asked, cutting through the ringing in my ears.
“Depends on the question.”
He huffed. “What Noble said earlier, about his Order—was he kidding?”
I was almost relieved by the grim topic. “No.”
“No, you can’t say? Or no, he wasn’t kidding.”
“He wasn’t kidding.”
“So the Morta don’t spawn from the geothermal pools. They are former men. Former knights.” His voice sounded muffled, as if he were wiping a hand over his face. “Knights take Oaths before the Lord, so the Lord must be…” He let out a pained groan.
I couldn’t answer. My Oath wouldn’t let me. Sympathy was a rot inside my stomach, making me feel wretched for leaving Faren alone in his realization, the decay of everything he thought he knew.
“And Hattie found a way to reverse it,” Faren whispered. “A cure that the Valiant know about, but the Lord does not?”
I wracked my brain for something to say, any sort of confirmation that my Oath would allow.
Ultimately, I opted for the common language between us: goading.
“I used to believe that Mighty Knights were thick-skulled,” I said delicately.
“I was wrong to think that about you.” It was all I could offer, a glib hint at his correctness, when what he deserved was comfort and confirmation.
Faren was silent for a while, save for the rustling of blankets. “What else do you think about me?” he asked finally.
The question was an echo of earlier, not exactly flirtatious, but seeking.
Whatever he sought, I couldn’t give it to him. The limitations of my Oath were proof.
“I need—something. From downstairs,” I said weakly, drawing the covers back and snatching the dressing gown from where I’d left it on the floor. “I’ll be right back.”
I slipped out the door before he could respond.