Chapter 25 Isi
ISI
Iswallowed the humiliation threatening to choke me and nudged the door wide, stepping inside. If I was careful with my questions, I might discover some clues here. He might let something slip.
I met his gaze and lifted my chin. “I’m…hungry. I was coming to see if I could get something to eat.”
“Of course you were.”
The smell hit me first. Honey, browned butter, and something warm and spiced that was not Trew.
So I told myself.
He still lounged on a stool on the opposite side of an enormous island in the middle of the kitchen, picking through a tray of golden pastries. He popped one into his mouth and moaned while he chewed. “Spying on the kitchen staff, were you?”
My stomach dropped. A flush crept up my neck. Fates, I had been spying. Just not on them.
The chef watched him with an indulgent smile, her eyes kind yet curious when they turned my way.
I forced a shrug and stepped closer, the stove’s heat brushing my legs through the thin linen of my pants.
“Sit.” He gestured to a second stool beside him, wincing for some reason when he did it.
Though I knew it was childish, I couldn’t help it. I rounded the island, lifted the chair, and carried it to the opposite side, lowering it to the floor.
His grin widened, satisfaction flickering in his eyes.
The staff pretended not to watch, but I could feel their stolen glances as I perched on the edge of the stool.
I drummed up a glare for him. “Please,” I said. “Don’t let me interrupt your snack.”
The scrape of wood on stone made me flinch.
Trew eased off his stool and lifted it, his mouth twitching from the effort. He carried it around the island to my side and plunked it down uncomfortably close. I could swear he grimaced as he reached across the island, sliding the plate of sweets over in front of us.
He sat. Our thighs brushed. I tried to remember what we were doing and ignore his warmth seeping through my pants and into my skin.
The cook wiped her hands on her apron and smiled at us like we were children playing house.
“Isi.” Trew waved lazily between us. “This is Betina Farlain, the head chef of this glorious kitchen where they craft meals so wonderful, they’re spoken about throughout the kingdom.
Isi…” His gaze slid over me, as sharp as a needle, heightening my irritation.
“Somehow, I didn’t catch your last name… ”
Every instinct shrieked that I should run. “It’s, um…Barlowe.” The fake last name Commander Thorne suggested I use.
“Barlowe.” He rolled the name around on his tongue. “Are you one of the Oakhaven Barlowes?”
“No,” I said much too quickly. “I’m not from that village. I’m from… Deepwood.”
He tilted his head, his smile fading. “Deepwood. I don’t remember any Barlowes there.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
He nudged his chin toward the plate. “I was complimenting Betina on her latest recipe. You should try one. Tell me what you think.” Not waiting for me to respond, he plucked one of the sweets from the tray and held it out to me. Tempting me. Urging me to take a bite.
If Betina wasn’t gazing at me so eagerly, I would’ve ignored him, but I was no more interested in hurting her feelings than he was. So I gave him a wan smile and leaned close, taking a nibble. Chewing.
There was something excruciatingly intimate about eating something from the hand of your possible enemy while he watched you with not only a smug, knowing look, but as if he couldn’t wait for you to taste more than the treat.
I swallowed the bite, trying to keep my posture composed, even regal. I failed. My toes curled inside my boots.
With that same unbearable slowness, he popped the remaining bit of the pastry into his mouth. He didn’t break eye contact, not even as he chewed.
A restless, hot feeling slid through me.
My knee brushed his. My spine stiffened.
I stared at the line of his jaw, the slight movement in his throat when he swallowed, and the way his gaze lazily drifted down my body before returning to my lips again.
He knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he was enjoying making me squirm.
“It’s very tasty,” I said, my voice too breathy for discussing food.
He smiled, lazy and smug.
Betina nodded. “Thank you.” Turning toward the staff who’d given up cooking and watched us raptly, Betina clapped her hands. “Let’s make twelve batches to serve with breakfast tomorrow.” She bustled away from the island.
The kitchen exploded into action. Staff magically pulled out gleaming bowls and long-handled wooden spoons.
Their movements were a kind of ballet, fast and seamless, as if the recipe already lived in their bones.
One magic-wielder twirled her fingers and a spice rack across the room rose and drifted through the air, settling gently on the wooden counter beside the bowl.
Another whisked butter and sugar together without ever touching it, her fingers dancing midair like a conductor.
Betina joined the flurry, her loose gray bun bouncing on her nape as she worked alongside them.
Ingredients continued to spin through the air, and a pitcher floated itself to the sink. Water turned on all on its own. One of the staff sent dough rolling itself out across the countertop with a flick of her hand. Magic filled the air.
So unlike back home.
So forbidden.
But was there truly anything wrong with using magic like this? They were cooking. Using an unconventional way to do so, but only making food.
They weren’t destroying the realm.
Trew shifted on his stool, his jaw twitching like he was trying not to bite something.
“If everything’s so good,” I said softly, “why are you grimacing?”
He blinked and fed me a tight, polite smile. “The food is amazing. It always is.”
I turned on my stool to face him fully. His body was so close I could see the shadow where his collarbone dipped into the top of his dark tunic, a faint bruise-blue vein along his neck.
I studied his face, but he gave me nothing.
Not a flicker of grief. Not a trace of pain.
But it was there. I could feel it, a clenched, hollow thing deep inside him.
“We should walk,” he said suddenly, easing off the stool in one fluid motion. He grabbed my hand off the island. Held tight when I tried to tug it away. “Let Betina and the others get back to work.”
I slid off my stool, and a soft growl ripped up my throat as I tried to yank my hand away from his.
He fed me a slick smile and linked our fingers tighter together. Only the fact that he was so gentle about it kept me from telling him to let me go.
He tugged me out of the kitchen like I was a ribbon he’d caught and didn’t plan to release.
In the hall, I tried to twist free again, but his grip remained firm, as if he didn’t even notice I was trying.
Only the twitch of his mouth told me he did.
Surprise flickered through me. He was stronger than he looked.
I considered using one of my favorite breaking moves, the kind that would leave him on his knees blinking up at the ceiling.
But the hallway was still within earshot of the kitchen, and I didn’t want to humiliate him in front of his staff.
We cleared the corner. I slid my fingers into the start of the maneuver.
He twisted effortlessly, deflecting the motion like we were sparring for fun. And kept hold of my hand as if letting go had never been an option.
“I don’t bite,” he said dryly. “Unless invited, of course.”
Heat shot up my neck and took residence in my face. “I suspect you don’t let many people touch you.”
“You’re right. But you can touch me anytime.” His voice didn’t sound mocking or cruel. Just rough with honesty.
I wasn’t used to being the exception, especially not with him. He was fire and warning bells. But now his touch skimmed over me like I might dissolve beneath it, and I hated how much I wanted to lean in.
I decided to let him hold my hand—for now.
He led me through dim corridors, turning left, then right, then left again.
The torchlight blurred the path behind us, and within ten minutes, I’d lost my sense of direction.
Every hallway in this cursed castle looked the same.
Arched ceilings, intricate molding, stone floors softened only by the occasional rug and the whisper of heat.
We passed a bathing room, the door cracked open, and before I could question it, he tugged me into the parlor beside it.
It was warm. Not just in temperature, but in feeling.
Velvet drapes the color of wine framed tall windows, parted to let in moonlight.
An elegant sofa angled toward a wide hearth, with a muted oil painting of a great white stag hanging above it.
At his nod, the logs lying in the grate flared to life, crackling, spilling golden flickers across the walls.
I’d barely taken a breath before he sat on the sofa and pulled me down with him, straight into his lap.
“What are you doing?” I twisted, trying to lever myself off.
His arms banded around me. “Holding you.”
“Why?”
“Indulge me this once,” he said, his voice velvet-dipped steel. “And I’ll try not to ask again.”
I was supposed to be tempted, but he sounded like he was the one being undone.
His hand tightened on my hip as if he wasn’t sure he could let go.
When his cheek brushed my temple, I stilled. My heart stuttered. He smelled like cedar and spice. Danger, barely held in check.
“I’ll break your nose,” I said, even as my fingers curled into the front of his tunic.
“You’ve threatened that before,” he murmured. “Yet here I am, nose intact.” His arms curved tighter around my waist. “You’re the only one I’d let close enough to try.”
This wasn’t smugness but surrender, said so fast I almost missed it.
I looked up at his mouth too close. Too kissable. Too familiar from my dreams. My breath caught somewhere between wanting to shove him away and wanting to stay exactly where I was.
I remained in his lap, though I did not allow myself to lean against his warm body.
“See?” he said, his voice a lazy rasp against my ear. “This isn’t bad, is it?”
I shot him a scowl. “If you were anyone else, you’d be moaning about a split lip by now.”
“If I was anyone else, I’d be moaning for a completely different reason.”
“Stop it.”
The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Stop what?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Actually, I’m not quite sure. Do enlighten me.”
“You’re trying to irritate me,” I said.
“Am I?” His chest lifted and released with a jagged sigh. “And here I’d thought I was trying to have a polite conversation with you.”
“We don’t do polite conversation.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
“Because you hate me.”
His gaze dropped from my eyes to my mouth. “I’m feeling anything but hatred. Do you truly feel hate for me, minxpip?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Alright.” He smirked. “I’ll call you minx instead.”
“Not that either.”
“Would you prefer Lady Barlowe?”
“I’m not a lady. I’m a warrior. A villager from up north.”
“Deepwood is west of the castle.”
“I’m not good with directions.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “What are you good with, then?”
“Breaking that chiseled jaw of yours if you keep trying my patience.”
“Then I’ll do my best not to irk you.”
I shifted, which only seemed to make everything worse. His arms tightened, and I felt every line of him underneath me. Hard muscle. Lean strength. Heat that should be illegal.
And his cock. I wiggled just a bit, testing. Long. Thick. If only I hadn’t noticed.
He leaned close enough his lips brushed my jaw. “This is torture.”
“For you or me?” I asked, breathless and aching for something I desperately tried to deny.
“Both.”
The word landed low in my belly, spreading like fire.
If I was a wise woman, I’d flail until he released me and then show him what happened to irksome men when they tried to take advantage.
I must not be wise, because I remained where I was. Maybe because the way he held me, possessive but careful, made it hard to think.
“You enjoy driving me mad,” he drawled. “Do you realize what you do to me?”
“I hope it’s painful.”
“Oh, agonizing.”
I managed a smirk and said sweetly, “Good.”
Then I twisted, using a pivot I’d learned from Commander Thorne. My elbow jammed into his shoulder, my knee bracing against his thigh, and I slipped free in one swift motion, almost tumbling to the floor before finding my feet. I stood over him, waiting for him to strike back.
Pain flashed across his face.
I froze. “What was that?”
“Just my pride, shattering.” But he didn’t meet my eyes.
I narrowed my gaze, dragging it down his body. His posture appeared too careful, his jaw clenched too tight. “What’s wrong?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
I climbed onto his lap, straddling him and started hauling up his tunic.
“If you want to touch my body, minx,” he rasped, “you only need to ask.”
My sharp reply died when I bared his chest.
Claw marks. Deep and red and clearly painful. They started at his back and curved around to the front, like something had tried to carve its way in to pluck out his heart. The raw skin had been torn open, and angry red blazed around the slashes, with deeper threads of bruising spreading beyond.
I stared, my belly twitching with dismay. “How long have you been walking around like this?”
He shrugged, wincing from the gesture. “It’s not fatal.”
“Yet.”
My fingers hovered over the wounds, but I was unsure where to touch. “You need salve. Stitches. Something.”
“You’re fussing.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Someone had fucking hurt him. “You’re the one who nearly bled out for…whatever reason you’re pretending was worth it.”
I glanced up, finding his expression unreadable. But his hands were fisted on my hips, and his breath came shallow.
I sat back on my heels. “Take the shirt off. If you’re injured lower, take your pants off too.”