CHAPTER 22 Wren
CHAPTER 22
Wren
‘Peppered broadleaf – an alternative to smelling salts. The bitter aroma is often used to wake unconscious patients’
– From Root to Petal: Understanding Plants and Their Properties
O F COURSE THEY ’ D been given adjoining rooms, because Furies forbid she be able to breathe without her new bodyguard hearing it.
‘I’ll be through here,’ the Bear Slayer said, his face a mask of indifference as he strode towards the door.
Only when it clicked closed did Wren exhale, the tension still tight in her shoulders. What was it about that man that riled her up so thoroughly? What was it about the press of his body against hers that sent her traitorous mind to the filthiest of places? The energy between them was more than any reaction Wren could create in a crucible – two elements coming together to make something else entirely. Something dangerous.
Chastising herself, she swept the loose strands of her hair back, re-pinning her messy bun in place before reaching for the toolbelt sitting atop her pack in the middle of the room. Her fingers found the vial of gilliflower essence and the small jar of henbit nettle, both of which would have countered the embarrassing effects of the brown laurel. Gods, she had been drugged out of her fucking mind.
You smell good... Wren cringed as the memory sent a fresh wave of embarrassment washing over her. The only thing that made it worse was that it was true. Even now, the scent of the Warsword lingered in her rooms, causing warmth to trickle down her spine in response.
It’s nothing more than the afterglow of the brown laurel , she told herself. Until tonight, she’d never experienced the drug first hand, but Kipp had confessed that in the hours after ingestion, it tended to have an aphrodisiac effect. Once again, she berated herself for the mistake. It had been beyond stupid.
With her skin tingling and heat pulsing between her legs, Wren looked around the space that would be home for the next six months – longer, if she managed to pass the Gauntlet. The High Chancellor had referred to it as the Great Rite of alchemy – counterpart to the set of trials the Warswords faced to earn their totems and Naarvian steel. Her sister Thea still didn’t speak of her own Great Rite to this day.
The room was simple, with a single bed tucked away in the corner beneath a stained-glass window looking out onto the courtyard below, and a private bathing chamber, for which she’d be eternally grateful. Most important, though, was the large workbench that took up much of the space, a single stool tucked beneath it.
Her quarters were entirely too clean and tidy. She needed the chaos of plants, books, and instruments to think. She found the emptiness stifling. No matter. For all the work she intended to do here, she knew it wouldn’t be long until the space resembled the vibrant mess of her cottage back in Delmira.
After she had unpacked, she set about making a spare antidote kit from her supplies. If the welcome gala was anything to go by, she’d need all the additional reserves she could get. She also made a mental note to get a decent sample from the blade Farissa had shown her back at Thezmarr. If she were going to create a counter-concoction, she needed something to test with.
An hour later, her eyes were bleary, and her formal gown had begun to itch. Her mind brimming with thoughts of what to expect from her first day at the academy tomorrow, she pushed her boots off at the heel. Sighing heavily, she stripped away her skirts, and at last her bodice, leaving her in a short undergarment that ended at the tops of her thighs. For a moment, she simply breathed, bracing herself against the bench, revelling in the freedom of movement without all the layers.
When more of the tension in her shoulders and neck had ebbed away, she headed for the bathing chamber, hoping there were facilities to heat the water. But when she pushed the door open, she let out a cry of surprise.
The Bear Slayer was standing before the basin, wearing nothing but a towel slung dangerously low across his hips, droplets of water glistening on his skin.
Wren’s mouth went dry at the sight. The sheer size of him undressed before her was mesmerizing, as were the ridges of muscle that seemed to cover every inch of his body. Fresh heat surged through her, pooling between her legs as she drank in the hard lines of his sculpted chest, the planes of his abdomen, and lower, the deep twin grooves that disappeared beneath his towel—
‘It’s common courtesy to knock, Embervale.’ The Bear Slayer turned to face her, clutching the towel at his waist as though it might come free at any moment.
‘What are you doing here?’ she managed, not quite able to tear her eyes away.
Torj raised a brow and jerked his chin towards a door on the opposite wall. ‘Along with adjoining rooms comes a shared bathing chamber.’
‘What?’ she blurted.
‘Unless you’d prefer to share one with three dozen students down the hall...?’
Naturally the guild had insisted on adjoining bathing quarters as well. Whatever would happen if she slipped on a bar of soap?
It was only when the Bear Slayer’s gaze travelled down her body that Wren realized she was in nothing but her shift, the cool air kissing her exposed skin making her all the more aware of just how much of her was exposed. And with the light of her room behind her, she knew the scrap of fabric left very little to the imagination.
Her first instinct was to throw her hands across her chest, where, against the thin material, her nipples were hardening beneath his stare. But no, she would not be embarrassed. She had nothing to be ashamed of, not even as she felt dampness gather between her thighs.
Torj wet his lips. From the way the Warsword was gripping his towel, his knuckles paling, she wasn’t the only one affected.
For a moment, she was back at the Laughing Fox, her hand pressed to his chest as she said, ‘Let’s get a room...Let’s settle this thing between us.’
She had come back to that encounter in her mind over and over, his answer always dousing the flames of her desire as it had the first time.
‘One night is not enough...’
Now, with a measured breath, Torj seemed to steel himself. He reached for a steaming pail of water at the base of the nearby tub. Corded muscle rippling, he lifted it, pouring it into the bath, the new angle revealing the significant bulge at the front of his towel—
Wren inhaled sharply, her skin suddenly far too sensitive. Silently, she cursed the brown laurel root and its delayed after-effects once again. The man before her was insufferable , she reminded herself. A sculpted body, no matter how tattooed and powerful, didn’t change that. As misty ribbons rose from the hot water, she bit her lower lip and clenched her thighs together, trying and failing to will away the tension coiling inside her.
When Torj turned back to her, a knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he surveyed her. ‘What’s the matter, Embers? Can’t handle the heat?’
Wren couldn’t stop herself from fidgeting beneath the brand of his stare. She flushed furiously. ‘I...’
With a final, blazing sweep of his eyes over her body, Torj reached for the door to his room. ‘The hot water is for you.’
And then he left.
Cold water would have been more useful , she thought, trying to shake the furious haze of longing from her mind.
But when she sank into the delicious heat of the tub, not even ironclad willpower could stop her hand slipping between her legs.