TWENTY-FOUR
Steam rose off the water in the small hip bath, making the hair at the nape of Aly’s neck curl.
Grant had left the heating on when he’d last departed, and she’d hauled the battered copper tub in front of the hot stove in the kitchen for her first proper bath in months.
Since the start of autumn, she’d had to be satisfied with a stand-up wash, gritting her teeth as she exposed one goose-pimpled limb to the cold air at a time to clean it.
It was hardly luxurious, sitting in barely fifteen centimetres of water, her knees pulled to her chin, but it made washing her hair easier than trying to do so over a basin, and the hot water on her lower torso and feet warmed her bones.
Sunlight streamed in through high, narrow windows, painting diamonds on the tiled floor.
She nestled against the backrest, closing her eyes as she stewed in the warmth.
Calum’s face flashed into her mind, his lips swollen from kissing, and the way he’d looked at her last night.
She’d expected fury or disgust on his features, or at the very least annoyance that she’d kissed him without permission, but there’d been desire in his eyes.
A part of him had wanted that kiss, just as a part of her had, a part of her she’d tried so hard to bury since the moment she’d met him.
She’d been quick to leave after, before she could find out where that kiss might lead.
Nowhere good, that was certain. An affair with a copper—well, it wasn’t as bad as an affair with a crime lord, but it wasn’t much better.
Worse, even, because she liked and trusted Calum in a way she hadn’t done with Grant in a long time, and Grant had taught her the danger of liking and trusting those with power over her.
As long as she was simply Calum’s informant, she could keep it straight enough in her head and remember what he was, but if she slept with him, if she let herself feel wanted by him, she would forget that he had the power and knowledge to hurt her.
A blast of cold air snapped her eyes open.
The dark-stained oak door was swinging ajar, and Grant stepped into the kitchen.
He leant against the door, folding his arms. It was a casual gesture, but it trapped her in the kitchen, and by the glint in his eyes, he knew it.
Aly’s skin prickled and she fought the urge to glance at the windows, to double-check what she already knew—that she wouldn’t fit through them, and if she did, it was a three-storey drop to a canal barely this side of freezing.
“Remind me how you got off when you were arrested for that burgess’s murder?” His tone was as casual as his posture, but there was an undercurrent of something else, an edge to his voice to match the pulse of the vein in his temple.
Aly felt cold, despite the heat of the bath and the stove less than an arm’s length from her side.
“Well,” she said, trying to inject some levity into her tone, “it wasn’t exactly me that got off.
” The very words made her throat burn. The first time she’d been arrested, for shoplifting, she’d done exactly what she claimed to have done with Calum.
She could still taste the copper’s hot, salty spunk in her mouth, still feel his nails digging into the back of her head.
The memory made her stomach turn. The worst part of it all was that he’d been a neighbour of her mum’s, and when he’d arrested her, he’d told her he knew she was a good lass who’d just got into a spot of trouble, and he could make it all go away.
He’d made it sound like he was doing her a favour.
And she’d agreed, because the alternative was prison.
“Why do you ask? Are you looking for a detailed account?”
Grant gave a half shrug. “Have you seen him since?”
Aly’s mouth went dry. She remembered the footsteps, the reason she’d kissed Calum last night.
But it had been dark, and his face had covered hers with his own black hair.
Her stomach lurched. The white streak had been facing the close, and it was even more distinctive than her long copper curls.
She let disgust creep into her tone. “Why would I?”
Grant gave her a long look, one that bored into her.
Sweat beaded on her forehead that had nothing to do with the steam rising off the bath.
There were stories of fae who could see in the dark.
If those footsteps had been Grant . . . he may have seen her as clear as day, and her hair, hands, and clothes would have been plenty to identify her.
Grant shook his head. “No, of course you wouldn’t. You’re loyal to me, aren’t you?”
Aly’s heartbeat slowed. She licked her parched lips. “Why don’t you come here, and I can show you?”
Grant’s eyes darkened and he stepped towards her, his fingers sliding into her hair as his lips pressed against hers.
She stiffened. It felt wrong. His grasp was too possessive, his kiss too dominating.
It was nothing like the tender way Calum had slid his fingers through her hair as though it were something precious.
She forced herself to relax, cupping Grant’s face as she returned the kiss, running her thumb over the stubble along his jaw.
He pulled away, letting his hand trail down her throat to her chest. “Perhaps later. For now, I need something else from you.” He gestured to the scars on her arms. “Dry yourself off and meet me in the bedroom, would you?” He tugged the sgian dubh from his boot before he stood and left the kitchen.
Aly stared at the scars on her arms, at the grey, raised bumps and lines, as disgust filled her.
She’d always scarred badly, but even the slash on her abdomen, the one that had nearly killed her, didn’t look as dead as the scars on her arms. She gave a shudder, then hauled herself up, the water sloughing off her into the bath.
She reached for a towel, drying herself with the diaper-weave linen. As usual, she avoided touching the scars any more than she had to, keeping the thick cloth between her hand and her arm. The fabric slipped, her thumb brushing against a scar, and it was cold, even fresh out of the bath.
Finishing quickly, she pulled a linen shift over her head and left the room. She met Grant in the bedroom, where he had already unsheathed the knife and rolled his sleeves up to protect the white linen from Aly’s blood.
She sat on the bed, tugging her sleeve out of the way, and held an arm out for Grant.
His grip on her wrist was unforgiving, holding her in place as the knife sliced into her arm.
The sensation of the blade always startled her, making her clench her jaw to keep from crying out in pain, even though it was nothing compared to the creeping, agonising cold that spread through her limbs as soon as Grant pressed his palm over the cut in her arm.
She could feel the power leaving her, slithering out through the crack in her skin. She gripped the bedpost with her free hand, gritting her teeth to keep from screaming. Her arm was cold, a cold so deep it burned, a cold so complete her arm was surely going to fall off.
The cold began to spread.
Up her forearm, past her elbow, fraying her nerve endings as it crept up to her shoulder. Panic rose in her gorge, her heart frantically pumping blood into her frozen arm. Something was wrong.
She tried to pull her arm away, but Grant held firm, his nails biting into her flesh.
Stop, she tried to say, but her lips and tongue were numb and leaden, and she couldn’t form the words.
Her fingers loosened on the bedpost, her hand falling to her side. The cold spread further, numbing rather than burning, slowing her pulse as it reached her heart.
She fell back on the blankets, barely registering the softness of the wool against her cheek. The numbness had stolen away all sensation, and she could feel neither the warmth of Grant’s hands nor the agony of her power leaving her body.
This was it. He was going to drain the life from her and throw her body in the canal, adding her to the tally of missing salchs, just one more name for Calum to investigate.
And she didn’t even have the strength to fight back.
She couldn’t feel her arms or legs, couldn’t feel the cool smoothness of the linen or the softness of the carpet. Her eyelids were heavy, closing even as she fought to keep them open, and soon she succumbed and the world went dark.
When she awoke, trembling and nauseous, Grant was gone.