Chapter 36
Derian
“I’ve never seen a power like that,” Cal says in a hushed whisper from where he, Taric, Roland, and I gather in the front parlor of my room, debating what to make of this situation.
Roland’s brows lift as he shakes his head as if he, too, doesn’t know what to make of it all. “I’m not sure what to tell the King of Velia. Should I be reporting that a Mortal won when she’s not…”
“She’s not a Fae,” Taric reasons. “I’ve trained her myself. She doesn’t have the strength of a Fae.”
“Nor the healing abilities,” Cal notes, glancing over my shoulder at her.
I can barely focus on the conversation, not when my attention is still stuck on the woman crouched in front of the fireplace. The Eshari’s head is in her lap, and she’s petting the beast absentmindedly, her shoulders hunched. She’s still filthy from the trial.
And she’s still barely speaking.
When we walked into the room, I brought her to the hearth, lit a fire, and told her to get warm.
She just sat down without a word of protest or attitude, not even looking at me as she did.
I scrape a hand over my face. “Tell the King she won. Huntyr Lachlan, the Lady of Vastile, won.”
Cal levels his eyes on me, heavy with hidden meaning. “You’re going to marry her?”
He’s my best friend.
My most trusted ally.
But damn if I don’t get a sudden rush of protectiveness when he says that.
He’s right, of course. What happened last night aside, Huntyr Lachlan was sent to kill me. I can’t just pretend that isn’t the case. I can’t very well trust her to sleep next to me each night.
“I don’t have a choice.” I sigh. “The rules of the Conclave are clear.”
There’s a tense moment of silence that falls over our group as we all collectively look over at her—the woman who looks more like a girl than ever before.
“Maybe we should leave you two alone,” Taric suggests.
“Absolutely not,” Cal growls.
The former Conclave winner frowns, not understanding Cal’s sudden protest, not realizing the truth behind the Mortal woman who fights with more skill than she should. “Maybe he can get some kind of explanation from her before tonight's celebration.”
Cal’s eyes are on me, silently begging me to disagree. To explain to the two other males why I shouldn’t be left alone with her.
“Taric’s right,” I say. “Go. Check the borders. If we’re leaving the fort largely undefended for the next week for these celebrations and traditions, I want to know we won’t have Velkai knocking down our doors.”
He hesitates, waiting even when Roland and Taric bow respectfully and take their leave. Stepping forward, Cal clasps my forearm with his own.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he tells me.
“I’ll be fine.”
His nostrils flare as he stares at her, and I fight the urge to step to my left just to block his view. “Do not let her demand the favor of you.”
“Ulna already explained how it works, I don’t need you to as well.”
His hazel eyes flicker to mine. “Then you should know exactly how dangerous this is, Derian. She’s an assassin. She was sent to kill you. What will you do if the favor she asks of you is to kill your own brother?”
My stomach drops at the possibility. I hadn’t even thought far enough ahead to consider that. She wouldn’t…
That look on her face when Luceron was mentioned.
The calculation in her eyes.
“I won’t hurt my brother,” I protest. Fuck whatever magic is in this Conclave. Nothing in all of the Ever Realm could ever cause me to lift a hand against Luceron.
“I hope for all our sakes that’s true.”
Then he’s gone, letting the door click closed behind him.
In the moments of silence after they’re gone, I let my head fall backwards, closing my eyes and breathing deeply, desperate to ease the tension that’s locked my back and shoulders.
She won.
She actually fucking won.
Against all odds. Against all reason.
I had prepared myself. Even as the magic railed against me, forcing itself out of me, I sat there and watched Seraphina beat her within an inch of her life.
I practically felt every blow myself. When the killing blow was leveled towards her, though—when I prepared myself to follow my Aunt's instructions and throw my power towards her one last time—she exploded.
It was beautiful.
Beautiful. And terrifying. And impossible.
Absolutely impossible.
I walk towards her slowly, careful not to spook her again as I crouch down and put my hand gently on her shoulder. The Eshari glances up without moving her head, but she neither snarls nor tries to bite me, so I’ll assume she’s still okay with me. At least for now.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I coax Huntyr, noticing that she’s still staring at her own blood-crusted hands. “My bathroom is over there. I can help.”
She doesn’t look back at me. She doesn’t speak. She just stands and follows my gentle guidance to the bathroom.
I send magic ahead of us, filling the tub with steaming water for her, but just as we’re about to step over the threshold, she halts, heels digging into the wooden floor. Then she stumbles back, looking wildly towards the Eshari, who is right on her heels.
The two stare at each other, somehow communicating without words, and I marvel at it, until I suddenly realize what upset her.
The smell.
“It’s my magic,” I explain. “You smell the Fae magic, right? It’s me. I warmed a bath for you. That’s all, I promise.”
Huntyr stares at me for a long time, glancing once more at the Eshari before she nods and continues following me in.
The tub is filled with steaming water scented with jasmine. I leave her side to pull sponges and cleansing balms from the cabinets, and by the time I turn back to her, she’s already stripped her clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor.
Gods, the sight of her.
There must be something wrong with me if the sight of a woman covered in blood instantly hardens me.
Or there’s just something about this woman.
She stands unabashedly naked, showing nothing but lean muscles and scars. I didn’t notice how many scars she had last night. Tiny pale divots down her arms and legs. A larger one down the left side of her stomach.
Suddenly, I realize that there’s very little I truly know about Huntyr Lachlan.
I know her humor, her smart mouth, her fighting abilities, but I know nothing of her history. I know nothing of the pain that shaped this woman into who she is.
And I want to.
I want to know about every scar. I want to know every story they tell.
I’m just about to ask when she notices my staring and moves forward, lifting her legs and settling herself into the tub of water, hissing as it connects with the various cuts across her body.
She leaves her arms out of the water, likely protecting the mangled flesh, scorched by Seraphina’s Fae fire.
She watches the water turn red, growing even paler as it does. Impossibly so.
The Eshari sits by the door watching, tail twitching unhappily. She looks at me, as if begging me to do something.
So I do the only thing I can think of. I send another burst of magic and clean the water while I continue gathering supplies.
Huntyr gasps behind me, and my heart skips when I finally hear her voice.
“How do you do it?” she asks, her voice barely more than a rasp after her screams. “The water.”
I have to breathe through the discomfort of hearing those cries still echoing in my mind.
Keeping my posture as relaxed as possible, I carry the cleansing balms and towels to her.
Slowly, holding her gaze so she can track what I’m doing, I lower myself to sit on the edge of the tub and gently take hold of one of her arms. She doesn’t react as I turn her hand in mine and examine where the sword dug into her flesh.
It’s a nasty wound, tendons and ligaments torn through. Even slivers of bone are visible. She’s undoubtedly in shock if she’s not writhing in pain. A wound like this would have even battle-hardened Fae fainting and screaming.
“There are certain aspects of magic that are simpler and easier to control,” I explain.
With a soft exhale, I send some of that power forward, letting it settle over her palm. She stiffens instantly, even tries to pull away from my grip, but as the wound starts to seal itself back together she stills, watching wide-eyed.
“Every Fae has a unique brand of magic that we wield, but we also have a general connection to power that we can use for certain tasks, like filling tubs or—”
“Healing?”
I pull her arm, extending it fully so that I can spread that magic into the burn on her bicep.
“I’m not the best at this,” I admit, focusing intensely on the task in front of me. “But yes, I can do it when I need to.”
Huntyr turns away, looking out the window on the other side of the tub, and I know without a doubt that she’s about to lock up again. She’s about to go silent on me once more, and I simply cannot handle it.
“I can teach you if you want,” I offer gently.
Her head snaps back towards me, blue eyes watering. “I am not a Fae.”
She says the word like a curse.
I try not to be offended as I reach forward and tuck her hair behind an ear that’s very obviously not pointed.
“You’re also not a Mortal.” I reach for the washrag and dip it into the water, smoothing it against her skin, washing away the blood on her collarbone.
Her brow furrows, her expression turning contemplative.
“My mother?” she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper as she thinks back to my previous question.
“Is it possible that she could have been a Fae? That you could be half-Fae?”
She glances at the Eshari again, her eyes locked onto the beast for quite some time. I continue washing away the filth while they talk, trying my hardest to ignore the way my cock twitches as I gently stroke the cloth around her breasts.
“I didn’t know her,” Huntyr tells me. “She died in childbirth. It was just my father and I. Until he died.”
Such pain in her voice. Such raw, utter pain.
More pain than a Mortal girl of only twenty summers should have experienced.