CHAPTER FORTY-THREE #2
“I believe that,” Deckard replied, barely registering his words or the others around him.
He was too intent on meeting Evylin’s gaze.
An indistinguishable expression crossed her face, a guarded smile on her lips as she held his stare.
She looked just the same as he remembered.
Her dark brown hair draped over her shoulder in a braid, little wisps dancing around her tan cheeks.
Her black coat was cropped at the waist, fitting her sculpted figure immaculately.
Knives clustered around her belt, the one with rosettes closest to her hip.
She was every ounce the Warrior he remembered, every bit as perfect as before.
A long silence hung between them.
Auden and Ilain stepped over. “Good to see you, Jonn,” Ilain said cheerily.
The moment broken, Deckard turned to Ilain. “It’s good to see you as well. All of you.”
“We’re glad to be back,” Thom replied, a nervous edge to his voice. There was something in his expression, a harried look that made Deckard wonder what had occurred to put it there.
Despite feeling the distance between them and even knowing his brother’s offense, Deckard couldn’t find it in himself to be angry.
He closed the gap between them, pulling Thom into a hug.
A reluctance marked the men’s embrace. But then Thom relaxed, returning the hug as he hadn’t since he was a child.
“I’m sorry I didn’t go with you,” Thom whispered.
Deckard’s brow pinched, and he drew back. He opened his mouth in question, but Thom backed away. He set a hand on Rafferty’s shoulder and gave him a shove, moving away from the horses. Ethenn gave Deckard a nod of acknowledgment, then drifted away with the men and the Calders.
Seeing the path cleared, Deckard turned back to Evylin. She hadn’t moved, her horse a wall behind her. Her expression remained unreadable, that polite smile and reserved stance defining her demeanor. It wasn’t an invitation, but it wasn’t a rejection either.
Daring to be brave, Deckard took a step closer.
Evylin flinched, and he paused. “You cut your hair,” she noted.
Instinctively, Deckard raised a hand to rub the short bristles at the back of his head. “Yes. It was getting too long for my liking.”
“It looks good. How did you manage such a feat?”
The stilted banter reminded him of their earliest conversations in Whickam Village. He couldn’t decide whether to find it charming or disheartening. “Rafferty is surprisingly good at cutting hair,” he explained.
A small laugh puffed out of Evylin, and she turned to the others. “You know how to cut hair?” she asked Rafferty.
The weasel slipped over to their side. “It isn’t all that hard,” he said. “If you can skin a rabbit, you can trim a head.”
“With that terrifying thought,” Thom said, gesturing to Deckard’s clean jaw, “I trust you didn’t let him do the shaving.”
Seeing the opportunity of being in Evylin’s company disappearing, Deckard didn’t feel his smile.
“No, I did that myself,” he said, then turned back to Evylin.
He wanted to ask to speak with her, to greet her properly.
Instead, he accepted the lackluster moment for what it was. “How are you?” he asked.
With a slow breath, Evylin glanced at Thom and Rafferty. The men ducked back, moving away once more.
Then Evylin took a step closer to Deckard. “I’m well,” she said, looking up at him. “How are you?”
Everything within Deckard begged him to touch her, to hold her, to draw her close, and to never let her go. Instead, he kept his hands at his sides. “Well rested after the last two days,” he said, nodding toward the dismantled campsite. “I’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to have a day off.”
Evylin’s smile softened her whole demeanor. “Aren’t you lucky? I haven’t felt well-rested in weeks,” she said, then drew a sharp inhale as though realizing she’d revealed a secret.
Deckard wondered if that meant she hadn’t slept well due to his absence. He tried not to feel hopeful that such was the case. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
When she didn’t move away or make any attempt to end the conversation, Deckard leaned closer. “I missed you,” he confessed.
Evylin’s amber gaze flickered between his eyes, an audible sigh slipping past her lips.
And oh, how Deckard had missed her. Seeing her again, being with her, made that absence feel all the more potent. He’d lost two weeks with her, time they would never get back. Yet, it made her presence now even more precious.
Evylin’s hand lifted, reaching across the space between them. “I—”
“We should head out,” Auden called.
Evylin’s hand dropped.
Deckard could have punched the man for interrupting. He pressed his lips together, turning to find Auden at his horse, utterly oblivious to their reunion. The rest of the team stood around, pointedly ignoring the couple.
Gathering himself by letting out a slow, controlled breath, Deckard flexed his hands rather than fisting them. “Just a moment,” he said, then turned back to Evylin.
But she’d already stepped away again. With one hand on her saddle, she gave him a soft smile. “I’m glad to be back,” she said.
Taking what he knew would be the best greeting he’d receive from her for the moment, Deckard offered her one final smile of his own. Then he moved toward his horse next to Rafferty’s. The weasel was already mounted up, smirking knowingly.
“The highlord isn’t keen on romantic moments, is he?” Rafferty remarked.
Deckard swung up onto his horse. He gripped the reins, settling into the saddle. “I want to hire you, Rafferty.”
“Oh?” Rafferty’s blond brows rose high on his forehead, expression expanding with interest.
“As an expert in the art of smuggling,” Deckard met his silver-gray stare, “would you have any ideas about how one might slip a dead fish into a Mage’s saddlebags?”
Rafferty’s grin grew wicked. “I might have one or two.”
“Name your price.”