Chapter 34
S tanding over the other side of the butcher block, Kaan splits his focus between stirring the soup and crafting one of Rygun’s scales into a blade, chipping off bite-sized crescents with a round-mouthed tool.
It must be handy to have a ready supply of Sabersythe scales, given most dragonscale blades maintain their slitting edge forever. They’re also lighter than any metal and hardier when shaped correctly—the very reason I have so many despite their steep price tag in The Fade.
Had.
Fucking had .
Rekk probably has most of them now, the fuck. Can’t wait to stuff one so far down his throat he chokes on it.
Kaan inspects his makeshift blade from all angles, loose hair hanging around his face. His black tunic is rolled to the elbows exposing slash marks up and down his corded forearms, half the buttons popped, offering peeks of dense chest muscles that tense with each strong clamp of his tool. Another thumbnail-sized crescent of scale chips off and flicks into the large clay bowl he’s working over.
I avert my gaze toward the pot of bubbling soup, steam escaping from around the rim of the waggling lid …
Killing him is looking harder by the hour.
I thought it strange that he had no beaded soldiers with him. No powerful entourage. At least not for the part of his journey he’s sharing with me. Though I’m beginning to wonder if he simply doesn’t require the protection. Perhaps so confident in his own abilities that any extra bodies are unwanted baggage he can’t be bothered to cart around.
My stare drifts to his satchel …
Or perhaps he just wanted to travel incognito because he doesn’t want folk to know he’s hunting moonshards .
Either way, he knows how to shape a damn fine blade.
I flick another glance at it, jealousy rippling through me as he places the pretty weapon in the bowl with the excess shards and sets it all on a back bench, far from my reach.
Clever tyrant king.
He moves toward the stove and lifts the lid on our meal, releasing an eruption of steam he bats away, stirring the fragrant concoction with a wooden spoon before scooping some of the broth to blow on it. He sets the edge against his lips, sipping—
My stomach gurgles, and I cough in an effort to smother the sound, though not before Kaan raises a brow and flicks me a look I ignore.
Wish I wasn’t so hungry. Feels wrong accepting a meal from somebody I eventually intend to kill. And behead. Just to be safe.
He ladles two clay bowls full of the soup, hearty curls of steam wafting off the top of each lumpy pour. My gut makes another one of those gurgling sounds, my cheeks burning as he settles a copper spoon in the bowl and slides the meal in my direction. He places another on my right, lowers himself onto the stool beside me, and begins spooning the meal into his mouth.
My gaze bounces between his profile … my bowl … my spoon … my rope-bound wrists …
Right.
I maneuver the spoon’s handle into my incompetent grip, discovering that if I tip my arms to the right, I can actually scoop the soup at an angle that should be accessible to my mouth.
Should.
I lift a small serving from the bowl, leaning forward—
My fingers fumble, sloshing it everywhere.
Teeth gritted, I try again, this time bringing it halfway to my wide-open mouth, tongue lolling, before the utensil wobbles from my grip, splatting my arms and chest with soup.
My spoon clatters to the ground, along with the remaining drabs of my patience.
I make to move off the stool, but Kaan grips my shoulder, as if to keep me in place. “I’ll get—”
I whip my head around and sink my teeth into his forearm so fast I barely register it happening until it’s done. Until the taste of his blood is in my mouth and he has me on my feet, backed against a wall with his thigh shoved between mine. With my hands pinned above my head and his hand clutched around my jaw.
Our bodies are flush, breaths sawing through our bared teeth.
Our noses and foreheads collide as the remaining light is wicked from the room, the only source now spilling from the stove’s kindled belly—making Kaan look like an angry shadow poured over me, his eyes crackling embers glinting in the gloom.
“You want to play rough, Moonbeam? We can play rough. But only after you eat.”
“Is that a command, Sire ?”
I swear the ruddy specks in his eyes flare, his body a strong, resonant force pressed against me. Too hot.
Not hot enough.
“There’s a difference between being cared for and being commanded. Know it.”
I chuff a humorless laugh, notching my chin forward. “You give me a bowl of soup and expect me to eat it with bound hands? Your perception of caring is warped.”
Can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I miss my shackles. Or more to the point, the chain draped between them. At least I could do things, like stretch. And scratch. My wrists are bound so close together that wiping my ass is going to be an experience when I finally make it to the privy.
“Try being open to accepting aid , Raeve. You’d be amazed at how the grain no longer chafes. A simple request for my help doesn’t make you weak. It makes you real .”
I open my mouth to tell him I don’t want the help of a tyrant Vaegor King, when my stomach gurgles again, casting its unwanted vote.
Something loud and rancorous unleashes upon the roof, a thundering assault unlike anything I’ve ever heard.
My heart leaps into my throat, gaze ripping from Kaan’s and darting around the room, searching for cracks in the walls since the building is obviously crumbling.
Did a moon fall?
Shouldn’t we be running? Hiding under the table?
Why the fuck is he so calm?
“It’s just a heavy rainstorm,” he rumbles, his voice a tender stroke to my hackled heart.
My body loosens.
Oh.
“It’s very … loud,” I say, still hunting the walls for cracks. “Are you certain it’s not a moonfall?”
“Positive. You are safe.”
I meet his cinder stare. “Debatable.”
“You are safe .”
“Because you need me for something—they always do. What is it? Might as well get it out in the open now, don’t you think? Expectations really pinch when they stab you in the back.”
He frowns. “All I want from you is for you to eat your fucking soup. And maybe for us to get through this slumber without any more bloodshed—a concept I’m aware you struggle with.”
My eyes narrow, seeking the fissures in his stare, finding only stone-hard conviction. “You’re a good liar, I’ll give you that.”
A growl boils in his chest, and he releases my wrists, stepping back. For some strange reason, it feels almost like ripping a seam open, my breath shuddering free.
He turns on his heel, picks up my spoon, rinses it under the tap, then sets it back in my bowl. Settling on his stool, he continues to eat in stoic silence, such a contrast to the battering of rain on the roof.
The air grows tighter by the second.
My gaze nips to the bite wound on his arm, blood dripping onto the ground. Still slicked across my lips.
I cringe.
I bled him in his mah’s home. Dammit . And dropped soup everywhere.
Turns out, I’m a shit houseguest.
Another grumbling belly gurgle, and I think of my beautiful, fallen Essi. She often baked for us. Loved experimenting with all the different foods I’d bring home from the markets.
I always thanked her, appreciating her efforts.
I’m almost certain I didn’t thank Kaan when he slid me the meal. Just began wrangling my spoon after watching him prepare it from my somewhat-relaxed perch on the stool.
Wow.
I’m a really, really shit houseguest .
No matter how much I dislike the male and everything he stands for, I should at least show my gratitude for the fragrant meal he cooked for us both. And persevere with trying to get some into my mouth.
With a deep sigh, I push off the wall and settle back on my stool, still wearing his blood on my face as l say, “Sorry for being disrespectful. And thank you for this meal. I appreciate the effort you put into it.”
He pauses, spoon midscoop. “It’s my pleasure, Raeve.”
I nod, toss my hair over my shoulder with a swish of my head, flick him a shy glance, then lean forward, pucker my lips, and shove my face in the bowl—sucking a long slurp of broth.
A moan slips out.
This.
Is.
Delicious.
Not too rich or salty. Subtle notes of whatever herbs he threw in here. There’s even the hint of something citrus. Don’t know what, but I like it.
I’m just swallowing my second glorious mouthful when Kaan erupts, his deep, gravelly laugh loud enough to battle the clamorous sky.
My cheeks heat, and I almost snap at him again, but then his laughter weaves a thick ribbon beneath my ribs that flutters up my throat and bursts from my mouth so fast it also spurts from my nose with a spray of soup that coats the butcher block.
My nostrils burn like I just snorted flames, but the laughter keeps coming, my entire body shaking from the force of it.
I’ve never laughed like this before. Not truly. I didn’t know it could feel this …
Good.
Why does it feel so good?
Tears streak my cheeks, soup drips from my nose and chin, my guts ache as my sound continues to spill …
And spill …
It takes me a while to realize the male next to me has gone quiet.
My laughter tapers, face muscles loosening. I unscrunch my eyes, looking sidelong at Kaan.
My heart stills.
He’s watching me with a haunting intensity that threatens to peel off one of the many calluses crusting my heart. A look that presses against my chest. My soul.
The sort of look that buckles spines, heartstrings, and knees in the same swift strike.
The air between us hollows, hungry for something I certainly don’t have the substance to fill, and I realize I might’ve been wrong about him. That he doesn’t want me for my affinity with Clode or Bulder or the ease with which I slay. That he wants something much, much worse …
Me.
Just me.
“Don’t do that,” I bite out.
“Do what?”
“Pretend we’re cozy. We’re not. I don’t know you, you don’t know me. I’m plotting your death as we speak.”
A tick in his jaw pulses, something flashing in his eyes that chills me to the bone. “Of course.”
I clear my throat, break from his gaze, and sink my stare into my soup. Another beat of chest-cracking silence before he reaches for a cloth on the bench and uses it to wipe my face.
I don’t stop him.
I don’t stop him from grabbing my spoon and feeding me like a youngling. I don’t stop him from ladling another serving he also feeds me before offering me a mug of water freshly poured from the tap.
I don’t stop him from wiping the soup from my shirt once we’re done. From leading me up the crooked staircase, through a skewed wooden door that’s high on one side, short on the other, and into a cozy sleep space with a single lopsided window and a large pallet topped with enough cushions and covers to drown in.
A sleep space that smells like him .
“The only exit is down the stairs and out the back door. That’s if you can creep past me quietly enough, since I’ll be sleeping on the seater. If you succeed, I’ll enjoy hunting you down, so be my fucking guest.”
“Privy?”
“Through there.” He points to another much smaller, more oddly shaped door as a burst of lightning ignites his beautiful, barbaric face in frightening undertones.
I lift my bound hands. “How am I supposed to—”
“I’m sure you’ll work it out,” he mutters, then closes the door so hard I jump.