Chapter 26
Desmond surprises me by leading us into his room.
I glance around, hoping there’s an insight into his Gift or his past or.
. . I don’t know why I care, and his room is disappointingly plain.
There’s a stack of books on the table and a bow hung on the wall.
His sword is still in the sheath against his hip, and I get the feeling he doesn’t travel without it.
Nothing inside explains why Auri locks his room at night.
“Sit,” he says, pulling out a chair for me.
I don’t. Instead, I shove it back under the table. The last thing I want to do is get comfortable. Not when he’s about to irritate the hell out of me. “So what’s first?” I ask him. “Telling me that you were right? Or threatening to kick my ass if I disobey orders again?”
“I won’t need to kick your ass again if you’ll listen for once,” he rebukes me. “Do you know what fear is? Maybe you should try having some of it, or did you not learn your lesson when your sister was poisoned?”
My mouth drops. Gods, the reminder of what happened with Evie scathes deeper than my wound. I glower at him. “Refusing to be afraid is how I survived the barrows and fed my family.”
He scoffs. “And it’s why you never think through the consequences of your actions.”
“Stop it,” I snap. I hate that he can decipher me after only what? Two weeks? “I know you’re pissed off, but that’s no reason to—”
He steps so close I see a dangerous glint in his hazel eyes, knife-sharp and unforgiving. The room suddenly feels too small. His voice lowers into a lethal calm as he says, “If you think this is pissed off, you’re less astute than I thought. When I’m angry, people run, Cynthia. You’d run.”
I stumble back, my thigh bumping into his bedframe.
“I wouldn’t,” I argue, even though the barely restrained rancor through the bond makes me think of the Gift he won’t speak of, the one that the world fears.
I raise my chin to meet his gaze. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t face for my family, not even you.
You’re not as scary as you think you are. ”
He blinks, dumbstruck, before he masks it with a scowl. “And why is that?”
“Because you tipped a servant in gold. You slept in a chair so I’d have the bed. You’re concerned for Finnian.”
“But that’s—”
I thrust out my arm, showing him the inked crescent. “Then what about this? What’s the real reason you made the vow with me? If I betrayed you, you could kill me in a heartbeat.”
Desmond crosses his arms. “You said could.”
“Because you wouldn’t. For some reason, you care about me. We both know it.”
“Of course I care!” he snaps, his jaw tensing. “Despite what the world thinks, I don’t run around murdering whomever I please. I don’t crave violence. All I want is—” He falters, clears his throat, and closes his eyes.
“Is what?” I press.
He doesn’t move away. Finally, he opens his beautiful hazel eyes, the green as warm as a midsummer forest. Then he reaches out, his hand gently cupping my cheek. Whatever I planned to ask next, the words die in my throat.
I stand so very still as he leans toward me. My breath catches as his lashes flutter closed, the aroma of leather and peppermint caressing me as his forehead presses against mine. Our noses bump, and then he stills.
“You’re hurt,” he softly says. I can feel his concern as he pulls away.
“It’s nothing.”
“Where is it?” he demands, the gentleness gone.
Hesitating, I lean away from him. My pulse skitters. What was he about to do? What would I have done, had he tried to kiss me after rejecting me last night? That thought terrifies me the most.
“I didn’t want to bother Maeve when Finnian is hurt.”
“That’s not how a team works,” he lectures me. “Will you let me help?”
Oh gods, when I force myself to look at him, I’m terrified by what I see. It’s. . . the subtle furrow of his brows. The softness of his mouth as his front teeth graze his bottom lip in worry. The way his callused hand extends to hold mine as if without a thought.
I’m so stunned that I nod. Maybe I shouldn’t be. He tore his cloak to bandage my shoulder, even though we were strangers then. How can a man who is so kind be convinced that he’s a monster?
Desmond pulls out the chair again, but I shake my head. “It’s my back. And my head.”
His eyes widen. I stare at the chiseled lines of his jaw, the restrained stillness of his body, until he reaches out, his fingertips featherlight against my forehead. “Here?” he asks me.
“Here.” I grab his hand and guide it to the side of my head, where I hit the cobblestones.
I feel his touch ghost around the swelling lump beneath my hair. He’s careful not to touch it.
“I shouldn’t have believed you when you said you were fine. Sometimes I forget you can lie.” He swears in a different tongue, and then his rough hands slide against my cheeks, steadying my head.
“What are you doing?” I try to pull away, but he doesn’t let me. This close, I see the floating mage light overhead shining blue in each strand of his soft, dark curls.
“I’m checking you for a concussion. How many days ago did we meet at the docks?” he asks.
“About two weeks ago. I’m not concussed.”
“Then what about your back?”
I wince. “I don’t know.” Then more defensively, I add, “How would I know how cut up my own back is?”
“Cut up?” His eyes narrow. “I can go get Maeve if you don’t want to show me—”
“But she’s probably gone back to bed already.”
“Then Auri.”
“Absolutely not.” I undo the laces of my gambeson and toss it across the room, just to emphasize my refusal. Then I shrug out of my tunic, revealing the linen bustier Nog had sewn as part of my new undergarments. My clothes are stained with my blood.
Desmond’s jaw clenches as his gaze quickly roams my bare shoulders, the swell of my breasts above the seam of the bustier. Then it reels back to my face. “Sit. On the bed.”
“Alright, but you could’ve said please.” Slowly, I sit and turn my back toward him.
“Fuck,” he seethes. It must be worse than I thought. Then his voice darkens. “Who did this to you?”
“Their housecarl. Don’t blame her. She was just doing her job.”
He’s silent for several seconds, then says, “I’ll be back.” He leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.
That was sudden. I look around his room again and recognize the book on top of the stack. It’s the one he read in the tavern. I slide off the bed, wincing, and flip through it.
There has to be a reason he has all these books. Is he doing research on Olin’s tomb? Desmond’s cursive covers the margins around an inked sketch of a sword. I skim them, frowning as I read, Not enough power. Around a sketch of a music box, he wrote Wrong kind of enchantment.
The back of my neck prickles with anticipation. Somewhere in this book must be what he’s looking for in Olin’s tomb. Why won’t he tell me what it is?
Then I open another book, and my brows rise in shock. The title on the first page is written in Desmond’s handwriting.
Tales from the Hollowlands
a compilation of narrations
Flipping through it, I skim what appear to be fae stories—faery tales, as humans call them.
Footsteps echo down the hall. I move the books back and sit on the bed just before the door swings open and shuts.
“You moved,” Desmond grits out. “Are you trying to make your injury worse?”
“I was bored,” I lie. I’d shrug to make it more convincing if it wouldn’t hurt so damn much.
He sits behind me and sets medical supplies onto the bed. Then he holds out a cup of watery brown liquid. “Drink this. It’s a pain-relieving tonic Maeve makes, willow-bark-based.”
“Sounds delicious.” It definitely won’t be. I wince as I gulp down the bitter tonic.
Then he hands me his flask. “And this will help heal you.”
When we first met, I would’ve hesitated, but now I gulp the sweet liquid down without a second thought. “What was that?” I ask.
“Another of Maeve’s tonics.”
Before I can ask why it was in his flask, Desmond unsheathes a dagger.
He cuts through the corseted laces on the back of my bustier, and I gasp as the fabric slips free.
I clamp my hands over my breasts just in time to hide them.
My pulse stutters wildly, and then a damp cloth is pressed to my back.
I hiss and fight the urge to wriggle out of his reach. “You could’ve warned me!” I scold, breathless from the pain.
“Yes, I could have, but I’m more preoccupied with making sure your wound doesn’t keep reopening.”
“Is this something you do often? Cutting women’s clothes off?” I bite back.
“Would you be jealous if I said yes?” he asks, too calmly to get a read on him. Is he provoking me? Or is it true? Has he ever ripped Auri’s clothes off? I thought they were lovers, but then why care if she glamoured me? Why tell her to stay away from me?
Either way, my hesitation is damning. Thank the gods he can’t see my flushed face.
“Hmm.” Then his voice lowers, so subtly I wouldn’t have noticed if I didn’t feel a pang of tired resignation from him. “You’re forgetting what I am to my people, Cynthia.”
I swallow. His words come back to me. Half-enemy. “But surely not all the fae see you that way,” I prod, thinking of the five fae from the vision Gashil had forced upon me.
He’s silent, and I look over my shoulder at him. He’s pouring disinfectant over a cloth, but his gaze is hollow and faraway. “Some were willing to look past it.”
“Were?”
“They’re dead.” He finally looks at me, devoid of emotion, as if grief had stolen his ability to feel anything at all.
“You have Auri,” I point out, meaning to reassure him. The words taste bitter on my tongue.
He sighs. “Turn around.”
I obey, but flinch as he presses the cloth to my wound. With my teeth clenched and hands balled in the sheets, I let him wipe away the dried blood. His other hand rests against my shoulder blade to steady me, his thumb rubbing gentle circles.
“Now lie down. You need sutures.”
Rolling my eyes, I carefully shift until I’m lying belly-down on his bed. “And you’re qualified to place them?”
“It wasn’t required in my training, but I like to be prepared.”