Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Turns out, Samick isn’t the kind of guy (or fae) to hide affairs and pretend they never happened.
After his silence and avoidance post-bathroom at the house, I expected him to be like that again, to push me away or ignore me completely and avoid eye contact like his life depends on it.
Every guy I’ve been with is the same. None of them care to hide it.
I do.
Or I did. Back then. In the Before.
Now, I lean against Samick, resting my head on his solid arm—in front of the whole unit.
The small camp in the forest is hugged too close together.
So it’s no secret that, in the quiet warmth of the flames, Samick lets me huddle against him.
He drags that charcoal stick over the thick parchment pages of his sketchbook, like this is all just normal.
Not once does he acknowledge the occasional gazes that slide to us from around the campfires, curious looks with murmurs and whispers shared between frowning fae.
And not once does he shrug me off of him.
He doesn’t even use the arm I’m resting on. That stays utterly still as he uses his right hand for the sketches.
Started off as strokes on parchment, but after I doze off a couple of times, then stir to that same sketchbook, the drawing has grown into that same picture he draws every time.
A home.
Not unlike a cottage, actually.
But two stories tall.
It has a sloped roof with uneven tiles that look sort of charming, and both levels are lined with windows overlooking a sprawling garden.
A garden that stops at the cliff that drops right into the sea.
This is where it ends for him.
Every time.
Not once in all my time with him has he finished the damn garden.
Still, watching him sketch is sort of relaxing.
There’s zen in it.
It’s like I can hear only the chalk scraping gently over thick, coarse parchment—and it tunes out the murmurs and the laughs from around camp.
It’s meditative.
It draws me into a sort of daze.
Fires crackle all around me, a welcoming heat swelling against me, and the world’s most uncomfortable pillow supports me.
It lulls me.
I think I’m about to fall asleep again when he hesitates.
The cottage is drawn, the cliff, most of the garden with pavers and garden beds and a pond and wildflowers.
But the left side of the garden is blank.
Just clean parchment.
So, as he presses the black chalk to the page—and draws, slipping back into his flow, it surprises me.
It almost startles me.
But there he goes. Stroke after stroke, he soothes me with a lullaby of art, of charcoal against parchment, and my lashes are growing heavier by the time I realise the outlines of what he’s drawing.
Rows of small flowers, like wild daisies, separated by stone statues… and pews.
A smirk slips onto my lips.
My idea.
“It’s good,” I say, soft, and my voice must be swallowed by the song of the campfire, because no one around the flames look at us.
Mika is asleep.
Arwyn watches over her as he usually does.
A pair of fae I don’t know are planted on the right of the campfire, playing a game of cards. Not the sort of cards I recognise.
These ones have symbols (like the strange kind on the map) and pentacles painted onto them, and they are about half the size of our playing cards.
The tight space of the clearing has pushed us all together, and that means being pushed closer to warriors I’m not familiar with.
Samick’s presence eases me.
There are less fae packed around this fire than the rest—and I get the idea that it’s to do with Samick and Arwyn, and how most of the other warriors seem to go out of their way to avoid them.
But not him.
Connie’s warrior.
He is sprawled out on his back, boots too close to the flames, and his arms crossed over his face.
He might be relaxed, but he isn’t asleep.
I know because, every little while, he lifts his arms just a bit, turns his head, and looks back at the captives.
He’s checking on Connie.
She’s curled up by the smaller campfire at the end of the mossy meadow.
She sleeps alone. Or as alone as someone can in a huddle of people around the heat of flames and trapped by a circle of sitting guards.
And even in the small space they have, the others avoid her.
I feel a twinge of pity in my chest.
Samick’s chin brushes over the crown of my head, disturbing my hair that’s weaved and tangled into a straggly braid.
I don’t look up at him.
I watch Connie sleep. And my murmur is gravelly, “Why is she alone?”
Samick traces my stare.
But he doesn’t answer, because the warrior looks between us then over at his mate, his evate, and he huffs. “She ran,” he says, and his voice is coarse, porous stone.
I throw my blank gaze to him.
The first time I noticed him, the campfires blazed so fresh and bright that the golden hues were banished from his hair. That’s not the case now in these settled, smaller flames.
Hair like spun gold matches his warm complexion, a sort of coppery undertone—but his eyes…
My spine chills at the sight of them.
Pockets of the blackout.
Pure darkness.
Like someone plucked out his eyes then shoved in a pair of glossy black pebbles.
I’ve been around the fae long enough now, but this one reignites that instinct in me—that recoil back into repulsion.
Samick doesn’t tense beside me.
Doesn’t sit up straighter or even stop adding his finishing touches to the sketch he’s finally completing.
He turns his attention back to the pages.
That alone is enough for me.
Unspoken permission that I can talk to Connie’s warrior.
And the only question on my mind is, “When?”
He lifts his dark gaze to me, a moodiness settling over his face like a brewing storm. “When the earth split.”
The earthquake.
That’s when we ran, too.
I wonder how many humans got away—if any.
Maybe the ones who tried were killed, and the evates were thrown back to the guards.
But it explains why this guy is hanging around our campfire. It’s closer to the captives in the meadow, and from here he can keep a better eye on her.
“I don’t blame her.”
The words just spill out.
No filter.
It’s a fucking curse.
Because that warrior swerves his gaze to me, and it’s outraged. Windows to the blackout.
I scoot closer to Samick until my hip bone is pressing hard into his.
Samick aims a glacier look down at me—and holds it.
I don’t think he likes what I said, either.
I shoot an annoyed look at Samick. “An earthquake happens in the dark, and Connie’s meant to stay put?”
The dark warrior arches his brow, almost like he’s surprised I know her name.
Joke’s on him, because that’s not her name.
I just gave her the name back when she wore Converse. Now, she wears lace up boots.
But that means he doesn’t even know her name.
It brings a frown to my brow. “Does she know you would’ve saved her in the earthquake?”
He just stares at me with a blankness on his face.
What conversation has he had with her, if any?
“Does she know where you’re taking her?” I ask. “What you’re going to do with her? Does she know anything more than she’s been kidnapped, dragged across the country, and some fae keeps throwing jackets and shoes and snacks at her?”
The warrior’s face turns to stone.
But his mouth twists into a slanted line, and I don’t know if he’s fighting the urge to take a chunk out of me.
I shift on the grass, leaning away from Samick and his sudden chill.
A frown turns Samick’s mouth down at the corner. For a beat, he considers me, then, “Do human women need to know these things? It is better for them?”
My face is taken by a deadpan expression. “Yeah. It helps.”
He doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm.
Instead, he asks, “What would you tell her?”
Something in me loosens—a tension uncoiled.
“I… I would tell her the truth.”
I shrug, lame, suddenly feeling the weight of the responsibility of a conversation I shouldn’t have gotten myself into.
I glance at the golden fae. “You could tell her that you’re mates, and you’re taking her to your home where she’ll be safe, and together you’ll—” I pause to tut “—run a shop, or whatever it is you do.”
Out the corner of my eye, I notice that a muscle feathers in Samick’s cheek.
“I do not own a shop.” The dark warrior’s frown is unkind. “I am an ox farmer.”
For an ox farmer, his English is pretty damn good.
Better than Mika’s has ever been.
My brows raise. “So… tell her that? Tell her… where she’ll live, with who, and that you’ll keep her safe. You shouldn’t blame her for running when the ground was splitting apart, and she was scared. Scared of you, too.”
He levels his stare with mine.
But before he can say anything, Samick’s low voice gravels over the crackling campfire, “Why does profession matter?”
“Because… it determines lifestyle, I guess. Like, if she’s the mate of a farmer, then she’ll be helping out on a farm, right?”
I look to the dark warrior—but his cheek is turned, and he stares at Connie rolling over onto her other side.
“And if he’s a warrior all the time,” I add, “then he’ll barely be around. And if he’s a fisherman, she’ll live near the sea… I don’t know why it matters, it just does.”
Samick closes over his sketchbook. “What is your profession?”
I tug my sleeves over my bare hands.
My gloves are off, draped over the toes of my boots, close to the flames. They need drying out sometimes—and my hands need a break from the material, otherwise my skin gets itchy.
I splay my fingers against the heat.
“Mine?” I sigh, watching the flames dance. “I didn’t really have one.”
The small smile on Samick’s face is slapable. Because it’s triumphant. “It does not matter then?”