Chapter 7 Wren #2
“Thank you, Derrick,” he says. “Eli will be here to relieve you soon, and I’ve set up rotation for the front with the men you listed.”
My head snaps up at the sound of Eli’s name. Something warm and strange flickers in my chest at the thought of seeing him again so soon, tangled up in the bitter memory of what we shared this morning.
A part of me is just relieved that my next guard is someone who doesn’t set my nervous system on edge, continuing the easy peace I’ve found today alongside Derrick.
“Of course, sir,” Derrick replies before his tone shifts and his volume lowers. “How was your visit to the holding cells?”
The way he asks it makes the hair on my arms lift.
There’s a darker thread running through the words, like he already knows the answer but needs to hear it anyway.
I shift closer to the door without thinking, bare feet silent on the wood as I lean just enough to catch the faint cadence of Ryoden’s reply.
Ryoden clears his throat, the sound low and rough. “It’s been handled.”
The word lands heavily, vague enough to mean anything from verbal lashings to something far worse.
There’s a pause, then his tone shifts, riddled with obvious exhaustion. “How has she been today?”
I roll my eyes before I can stop myself. I’m three steps from the door; he has to know I can hear him.
“She can hear you!” I call out, irritation sharpening my tone, “and she is hungry.”
Silence falls in the hall for a beat that stretches just long enough to be satisfying in the awkward pause.
Derrick clears his throat. “She’s been…cooperative,” he lands on, finally. “Mouthy, but cooperative.”
There’s a hint of humor buried in there and my lips tilt up in turn. I move the last step forward and press my palm lightly against the door knob, testing to see if it’s locked. With a satisfied smile, I pull it open, giving me a clear view of both men.
Derrick stands sideways, shoulders squared, attention splitting between me and his colonel. Ryoden stands a few paces away.
My eyes take in this new version of him slowly, piece by piece.
He’s not in the same pressed uniform from this morning.
In the place of his uniform are dark slacks and a plain button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms and the top two buttons undone, allowing a glimpse at the gold chain resting against his skin.
His hair is damp, darker at the roots and a few strands cling to his forehead.
It’s obvious now he came back and washed off immediately.
I don’t begrudge him that, but I do resent that I’ve not been given the same option. The scent wafting from my grimey clothes, skin, and hair isn’t one I’m proud of.
There’s a softness in his appearance, without the pressed uniform and carefully styled hair—almost like he’s peeled back a layer, exposing the version of him that I have to imagine is reserved for very few people.
Then my gaze drops to his hands and the illusion of softness cracks. The skin across his knuckles is split in several places, scraped raw and darkened with dried blood. Some of it speckles along one forearm, trailing up from where his sleeve is rolled.
My stomach tightens.
Handled.
I hear the word again in my head, overlapping with the image of those guards leering at me in the stone room and the way they discussed stripping me like it was a joke.
I think of Ryoden standing there, jaw clenched, promising he’d personally walk them beyond the walls and strip them of their dignity.
I hadn’t really pictured what the details of that would look like.
“Looks like you’ve had a busy day,” I say quietly, my gaze flicking back up to his face.
His eyes follow mine, tracking the path I just took. He doesn’t hide his hands or tuck them behind his back. He just glances down once, as if confirming what I’ve seen, then lifts his chin again.
“They’ll live,” he says evenly. “They just won’t step foot within this city again.”
A pulse beats hard at the base of my throat.
I don’t ask what he did. I’ve seen enough violence to last several lifetimes in the short span of my existence, but knowing there were real consequences for what they almost did to me—and what they’ve likely done to others—sits in a strange place inside me. Unsettled, but not unwelcome.
Once more I’m unsure of where to categorize this man. He put a guard at my door and called me a potential prisoner of war. Yet he also bloodied his own knuckles to make sure his people know there are lines they don’t get to cross.
For a moment, we just look at each other. His eyes flick over my face, down to my bare feet, then back up again, cataloging details the way he always seems to. I lift my chin and meet his stare head-on, unwilling to let him think I’m cowed by the fact that he holds my fate in his hands.
“You’re hungry,” he repeats, as if confirming the words.
“Yes,” I answer as a retort comes to my lips, but lacking my usual bite. “That tends to happen when you stick someone in a room all day.”
One corner of Derrick’s mouth twitches like he’s trying very hard not to react.
Ryoden exhales through his nose, the sound almost like a sigh. “I’ve been a bit occupied,” he says. “But that’s on me, not on you.”
I wasn’t expecting him to take responsibility for that, and the admission annoys me. I almost wish he’d stop saying and doing the right things, nearly all the time.
“Derrick,” he says, tearing his gaze from mine. “I’m going to make food in the kitchen for us, do you want to stay for dinner?”
The question comes out easily, like this is their usual routine and it warms my heart.
Derrick straightens and glances between us before bringing up his hand to rub at the back of his head. He grimaces lightly before letting out a heavy sigh. “With all due respect, I don’t think there’s enough wine to get me through a dinner with you two.”
My instinctive reaction is to scoff, offended that he thinks dinner would be so horrid.
Yet Ryoden’s laughter fills the house so fully that all my confusion and annoyance fades away, drawn to the sound.
His entire body seems to be at ease and in that moment, I realize how handsome he is.
Kindness emanates from him as he claps a hand on Derrick’s shoulder and wishes him good night before both men head for the stairs.
With a smirk still pulling his lips up, Ryoden looks back at me over his shoulder where I still stand, shocked and incapable of moving.
“You can either come down for dinner, or I can bring it to you. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
They thud against the floorboards, disappearing down the winding stairs. I hear the echo of the front door opening and closing and a chill skates down my spine, suddenly very aware that it’s just the two of us in the house now.
There’s no guard confining me to my room. I could try to take advantage and find a room with a path to escape, but my feet take me toward the stairs and the sound of pots and pans downstairs.