Chapter 28
A fire crackles in the middle of the cave, small enough so that it doesn’t smoke us out but large enough to boil water and heat the cramped space.
It’s unnervingly cold—bone chilling even—and even though a fire quietly roars in front of us, I can’t help but shiver.
Perhaps it’s the injury that has me so cold, or maybe a storm is rolling in.
Luckily, since Rydian has been here before, he previously moved large stones in varying sizes into the cave, used as chairs.
He claims to have come across the location a few years ago when meeting an informant in Arcan.
He didn’t go into much detail about it other than that it was a peaceful spot, enjoying the river when he passed through.
We’ve just finished cleaning our wounds, taking turns soaking strips of my torn sleeves with the boiling water. Now we sit in silence around the fire.
“Are you hungry? I have some dried meat in my bag.” I shoot a glance to my right, catching the hard line of his jaw as he clenches it, but he gives me a small nod anyway.
Stuck in Arcan for the night isn’t exactly what either of us had in mind, but we’ll have to make it work.
I can only hope that no one comes knocking on my chamber door over the next few hours.
Lifting the flap and digging through the canvas material, I quickly find the meat, offering him a few pieces when I notice something shiny at the bottom of my bag. Reaching in, my hand grazes a small metal tin, and I pull it out to find the leftover salve from my trip to Sylvanor.
I grin. Ezra gave me the first tin after he replaced it just in case I needed it on my ride. I rise to my feet, limping to stand in front of Rydian just shy of his knees.
“Take your shirt off,” I say, motioning for him to lift it with a flick of my wrist. He lifts his gaze to mine with a raised brow and a wicked smirk.
“Naked so soon? I figured you would’ve held out longer,” he says and I groan, exhaling through my nose.
“Just let me put this on you.”
His eyes finally dart to the small tin in my hand when he gives me a nod and begins to peel off his shredded shirt.
He pulls his left arm out and inches it above his head with a wince, so I reach over to help with the remaining pieces.
The movement forces me to hover over him as I peel off the torn fabric stuck to his arm.
He hisses in pain, and I pause, catching his gaze.
“I’m fine,” he growls, shaking his head.
My brow arches. “You’re not, but it’s good to see you’re at least well enough to throw out your usual charm,” I mutter, opening the salve with a quiet pop. “This isn’t like your injury in Sylvanor. How come you’re healing slower here?”
Stepping between his legs, I motion for his right arm.
He silently lifts it, but I catch the way his breathing stalls as he meets me with a heated stare in a way that forces my eyes to focus on his arm instead of where I’m standing.
His warmth radiates off his muscled chest, and I feel it heat the space around my hands despite the brisk chill in the air.
I slowly work the salve into the cuts when his voice goes low.
“I was at full power in Sylvanor, but whatever that thing was, its bite slowed my healing. It’s worse than any damage from a blade, which is usually a clean cut, but the longer I’m in this realm, the more it dampens my power.”
I gently hold his arm, lightly grazing the paste over the four jagged gashes that reach from his elbow to the top of his wrist. He’s at least stopped bleeding, but the fleshy wounds remain open.
“Have you seen something like that before?” he asks.
“No,” I murmur, the fire crackling behind me.
“But they remind me of the Grokees we encountered when we tracked you to Sylvanor. One left a gaping wound on my shoulder after knocking me off Bjorn. The healing took me a couple days to recover from.” I glance up to catch him staring before I shift my gaze back down.
“Their torn, decomposing skin looked the same. They also had a very similar scent, and the feeling I got…” I shudder, shaking my head and remembering the chill that went down my spine before he realized we were surrounded.
“I could almost sense them. I don’t know. It was odd.”
His soft breathing brushes the hair over my face, and I realize then just how close we are. Eager to focus on anything else but his mouth, my thoughts suddenly land on the hidden birthmark in my hair, pulling me back to what Milena said.
“My mother had a Varethin mark in her hair. Milena mentioned she received hers in the castle—does that mean they’re not born with it?” I ask quietly.
He hums, a puff of air escaping his nose. “The marks of Aurelia are often acquired later in life. Most don’t get theirs for many, many years.”
“Do a lot of Fae have them?” I ask as my fingers graze his wounds again, drawing a low groan from him.
“It’s not uncommon,” he gets out between clenched teeth. “Most spend their lives trying to find their connected soul, oftentimes marrying when they do.”
I nod, thinking. “And if someone has one of these… marks. Who’s to say it’s not just a birthmark?”
He chuckles softly. “That would make life easier, wouldn’t it?” he mutters almost to himself. “To believe it was only a birthmark. No need to wonder if there’s a mate somewhere in the realm only meant for you.”
My fingers slow their movement. “So you’re saying it’s not possible for something like that to only be a birthmark?”
“No, I’ve never heard that before,” he mumbles. “If you have a streak in your hair—of any color—it’s a mark. And it means you have a mate in Aurelia that’s bound to you.”
I have to pull my hand back to hide the trembling in my fingers. All my life I believed the color in my hair was a birthmark, and if what he says is true, why don’t I recall getting it? Unless King Elion wiped that part of my memories, but if he did, why?
“So, what makes you worthy of a mate mark in Aurelia?” My finger dips into the tin again as he shifts his shoulder forward for me to reach. His eyes graze mine, a small grin tugging at his lips before shifting his attention to my hands.
“I’m not sure, but I know that the Fates don’t make mistakes with their marks.
Some Fae wait a lifetime for theirs to arrive, while others don’t receive one.
Some even believe it’s because their mates aren’t born yet, or perhaps they just don’t have one.
But if you do get one, it can be a… lonely life. ”
“Lonely?” I frown. “How so?”
“If a mark appears, they spend a lot of time searching for their mate, often turning down future partners in hopes of connecting with their mate at some point. But it’s never guaranteed,” he murmurs.
“How would they know who their mates are?”
“By the color and the location. They align in the same spot, and then there’s… that feeling. The connection, they say, and a couple other details like claiming them during a ritual,” he says.
Interesting. I already know about the mate-claiming rituals, but his words force me to pause, turning them over in my head. The color and location? Would that mean it has to match mine? Truthfully, I’m not sure how I feel about being connected to someone else, but his words leave me curious.
After dipping my finger in the tin one last time, I pivot to rub the salve on the rest of his shoulder when he catches my hand right below the scar on my wrist. My eyes narrow, meeting his gaze, but he shakes his head.
“There’s not enough in there for my shoulder but there’s enough in there for you,” he murmurs, grazing his thumb over the top of my hand, then gives me a lopsided grin. “It’s your turn. Take off your pants.”
I find myself chuckling with a shake of my head, his eyes gleaming with amusement as I wipe the remaining salve back into the tin. “I’m not taking my pants off. Nice try, Your Majesty.”
He chuckles. “Fine, leave your pants on, but you’re getting the rest of it.”
He guides me to sit on his left, pivoting me so that my legs drape over his lap, giving him access to my calf. I put weight into my palms when he takes out one of his daggers. I attempt to sit up, but he pushes his hand against my ribs with lowered brows, halting the movement.
“Relax. I’m just going to just cut the fabric at the knee. It needs to breathe.” He throws me a sideways glance, and I catch the way his mouth quirks as if he’s fighting a grin.
“I like these pants.”
“Well, they’re useless now.”
I groan as he cuts and rips the fabric off with a rough tear, exposing the torn flesh, leaving me to wince as it brushes against the wound.
“Sorry,” he murmurs and then falls silent as he rubs the salve over the back of my calf in soothing but gentle strokes.
The fire flickers, lighting up his face, leaving me to notice how his auburn hair falls to his forehead while he leans forward.
My eyes snake down the left side of his neck, landing on his bare chest, where swirls of dark ink stop right above his nipple. My gaze travels farther down, noticing the hard lines of his stomach. I suddenly find myself wanting to lick the area right above his pant line. Dammit.
My face flushes at the filthy thoughts bouncing around in my head, suddenly feeling too hot even though it’s cold enough for ice to form.
A soft breath escapes me, and I quickly close my eyes.
I drop my head back, forcing myself to focus on savoring the gentle touch of his callused fingers instead of how he looks while putting it on me.
The salve is cool on my skin, then warms almost instantly. I sit for a few breaths, losing count as I listen to the sounds of the crackling fire, my neck rolling to the side as the earthy smoke fills my nostrils. My body relaxes, an involuntary quiet sigh slipping free.
“There… all done,” he murmurs, and I slowly open my eyes to find him staring at me. I blink, my lips parting as he holds my gaze, then gives me a slow, lazy smirk. “Are you going to remove your leg from my lap?”